


Stay on my Shore

by alcxhardy



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alcohol, Alternate History, Georgian Period, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, Multi, Pirates, Sexual Themes, Swearing, Torture, alternate endings, death mention, essentially Queen but seafarers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-09-26 23:09:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17150828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alcxhardy/pseuds/alcxhardy
Summary: Friary Cove is a small seaside town, home to farmers and fisherman, and the daughter of a retired navy Admiral. She is well-revered, especially by her neighbour, a young man with the name of May. However, danger looms on the dark waters, and both of their lives are about to turn upside down.





	1. I. Friary Cove

**Author's Note:**

> Hello & if you're reading this, first of all: thank you! You make it worthwhile.  
> I hope that you'll stay and share in the entire thing as I gradually write and post it.
> 
> A few notes: this is the first work I've ever posted before I've completed it, so please be gentle with me.  
> I completely intend to finish it! It's become a passion project. I hope you love it!
> 
> Secondly, I do intend to write four seperate endings, so that you (the reader) may choose whichever conclusion you prefer. (That is, ONE standard ending, and 3 seperate endings focused around the reader's relationship with Brian/Roger/John, depending on who in Queen floats your boat romantically. But no promises.)
> 
> Thirdly, I wrote this fic visualising our Queen boys in the 70s era, when they all had their luscious locks. Feel free to view them differently/in your favourite era as you read, but this insight will most closely match up with the descriptions of them.
> 
> Lastly, the title comes from a beautiful song by Joan Shelley, which I recommend for listening pleasure.  
> And as always, I would love to hear what you all think.
> 
> (As a side note, the reader's last name, "Nelson", is not a reference to Horatio Nelson, the 1st viscount British navy admiral, but rather is an homage to Gwilym Lee's wonderful character in Midsomer Murders, a show I've been watching for most of my life.)
> 
> Blessings xx

_“Underneath the moonlight_   
_Together we'll sail across the sea_   
_Reminiscing every night.”_

\- Seaside Rendezvous, Queen

_“I am the shore and the ocean, awaiting myself on both sides.”_

\- Dejan Stojanovic, The Shape

 

England, 1806.

 

I.

The waves curled around the rocks as the water blew relentlessly further towards the shore, crashing against the dock. The storm painted itself across the sky, clouds of slate billowing closer as the wind whipped furiously.

Friary Cove was beautiful at this time of year: a small English seaside-village built along the coast, its residents humble farmers and fisherman, the occasional merchant. On the highest peak of the plateau, there was a single white mansion; built in the colonial style with white columns and crunchy gravel. The mansion sat on a large plot of green, secluded from the rest of the village, well-tended with fruit trees of all kinds, and a garden to rival Eden. Each spring, pink and purple blooms shot from the ground and peppered the garden with vibrant colour. The house was home to a retired navy Admiral and his daughter, (Y/N).  
A woman of great beauty, (Y/N) was well-revered, known in the village for her laughter and her gentility. She’d grown up playing in the waves, walking along the sand, but now resigned her time to reading indoors, studying the many books that her father kept in old oak bookshelves. Often, she would go for a walk under the evening sky, her hair billowing in the wind. And more and more, she had come to realise that her heart longed for something else; something new. Something more. A story like she read about in her books.

*

The storm raged on tonight; blowing the sea spray up against the rocks, and the wind howled, like a ghost cursed to walk the beach barefoot, wailing. The rain came down hard, pelting against glass windows.  
Inside, the candle on (Y/N)’s dressing table blew out, and she wrapped herself tighter in the blanket, goosebumps forming on her skin as she ran to the window and closed the shutters. There hadn’t been a storm of this intensity for a while; for the merchants and the fishermen, it could end poorly. The waves would surely smash their boats against the rocks.

(Y/N) thought of her neighbours, the humble family who lived across the plateau, named May, after the fifth month. Year after year, they’d had a tragedy at sea. First, the eldest daughter had drowned in an accident; last year, their fish were stolen from their barrels; now, the storm swept mercilessly against their boats tied to the dock. Their youngest son was a similar age to (Y/N)’s, and he had sweet kind eyes and a passion for the stars. Often, she had peered out her bedroom window at night and seen him, waist deep in the water, gazing up to the sky, the wind tugging his curls.  
They’d grown up together, splashing in the water, and (Y/N)’s lips drew into a smile as she thought about him, while the storm raged. Last year, he’d kissed her gently against the rocks behind his house, his lips salty like the sea. And while she didn’t feel anything for him apart from the comfort of familiarity and the warmth of friendship, the sensation of his hands brushing her hips and his tongue sliding against hers still made her stomach flutter.

Alas; the world called. Alone in this house, (Y/N) was acutely aware that there was more outside these walls than just her neighbour and his enticing smile; there was a whole ocean at her door, the globe at her feet.

*

(Y/N) woke up in the night to a shutter that had blown open and was now banging against the wall, the hinge creaking. Her blankets had fallen to the floor and she shivered, eyes still half-closed from weariness.  
Pulling her shawl over her shoulders, she slid her legs over the side of the bed, her feet cold as they touched the floorboards and carried her towards the window. Her hands found the shutter and held it closed. The night air blew against the house with a whisper, and (Y/N) blinked wearily. She longed for a walk along the shore: it was far too late and improper to go alone, and yet, (Y/N) had never been one to shy away from a golden opportunity.  
Barefoot and only in her white nightgown, with her shawl draped over her shoulders, (Y/N) crept silently through the house, paused for a moment by her father’s door. He was bound to be asleep, snoring loudly, unperturbed by the storm.  
(Y/N) considered lighting a candelabra, taking it with her, but her eyesight was fine without the flames, and it would blow out in the outside wind, anyways. She stepped carefully down the staircase, past the bookshelves, the decorative vases and miniatures of naval vessels that her father had built and collected, stopped to admire them for a moment.  
Then, she put her hand inside the vase that was propped on a table to the left of the front door, pulled it out again clasping the key to the door. With a single turn, (Y/N) unlocked the door and slipped away, pulled it shut and re-locked it; her father was safe, inside.

The breeze tugged at her nightgown, blew the hem up, but the rain had stopped, leaving the grass with a wet shine. (Y/N) took off, followed the gravel to the edge of the property, and then walked farther. By the time she had reached the sandy shore, her feet were scratched and covered in wet grass, stained with mud, but her body had adjusted to the temperature and she no longer shivered.  
She gazed over to the May’s residence: the window that faced the sea reflected a warm light. Someone must’ve been awake. (Y/N) squinted, tried to make out a figure behind the glass, but the house was too far away to be sure if anyone was there, looking out.  
The ocean’s inhales and sighs were calming, the black water reflecting the moon like a pearl poured out on top of the horizon.  
(Y/N) found a section of beachrock jutting out from the sand, climbed it carefully, putting the key between her teeth and using both of her hands to feel for grooves where her feet could fit. She came to rest atop it, pulled the hem of her nightgown down to cover her knees, and looked out over the ocean.  
The cool air was refreshing; it smelled of salt and rain, and (Y/N) felt sleep tug at her as the clouds rolled over the grey sky.

As she rested her head back and lay against the rock, she lamented that the stars were obscured by the clouds. She also failed to notice the vessel that emerged on the horizon, a tiny speck that gradually drew closer, with shimmery blue sails, and a figurehead of a mermaid carved into its prow.

*

(Y/N) woke abruptly, the rock jutting into her back. The air had turned cold, and the rain had resumed, and was now pelting against her body. She clasped for the shawl, found that it had fallen off the beachrock. The hair on the back of her arms stood up and she slowly scrambled down, but her foot caught against the wet sheen of the formation, and with a grunt (Y/N) fell to the ground, hitting the sand. Her knee was sliced open, and red blood poured out and ran down her leg. “Ah,” she winced, wiping the blood away.  
Rubbing her eyes, (Y/N) sighed, reached for the shawl, flinched when she heard the deep boom of a man’s laugh, and before she could respond, she felt something smash against her skull, and pain wash over her as her body thumped against the wet sand, her vision fading out.

*

Brian gazed at the ocean as he checked his boat for leaks. The storm had raged all night, and he was certain some damage may have been done. The dock harboured all of the fishing boats in Friary Cove, and no doubt they’d blown against each other overnight.  
Thankfully, no damage was apparent, and Brian prayed a silent thanks. His family needed no more tragedies. The ocean was so blue today, deep cerulean, and the sky had no clouds. Gulls sung their songs, a rejoicing for their spared nests.  
Brian stepped off the dock, into the cool water, which only reached his thighs. His feet made large footprints in the sand as he walked along the beach, stopping to pick up some shells that were buried in the granules, and twirl them between his fingers.

Then, Brian frowned as something caught his eye. A glint of… something against the beachrock by the sandy berm. Perhaps it was something he could take home and study! Like a rock with an interesting structure, or a piece of coloured glass that had washed up from the ocean.  
He drew closer, crouched down to investigate. It was a piece of iron that was half-buried in the sand. It must’ve been there a good few hours.  
Brian dug gently around it with his forefinger, and pulled it out of the sand: it was a key! Small and in pristine condition, it had delicate wrought iron at the base, and intricate teeth.  
Brian frowned. Surely, this hadn’t appeared here overnight? The key showed no signs of rust or water-damage, or of being at sea for a long while.

Then, his heart fluttered. He’d seen it before! He knew the pattern! This key belonged to (Y/N) - it was the spare one that she took with her when she walked along the shore after dark.  
He’d been watching the stars in Spring and caught her alone one night. She’d made him promise not to tell her father that she’d found its location, and was actively using it.  
Brian clutched it to his chest.  
Confusion tugged his brows into a furrow. If (Y/N)’s key was on the shore, where was she? Had she left it for him to find? Unlikely. Anyone could walk along the beach, pick it up.

Brian’s stomach swirled with unease. His feet were carrying him towards her house before his brain decided it was the next course of action.  
Then, he was running, his sea-soaked pants drying as the breeze whipped past him, and he stumbled with every squelch of wet grass against his feet. Brian tasted blood and iron at the back of his throat, and when he tried to swallow he felt pain instead, kept running.

When he reached (Y/N)’s house, Brian lurched forwards, despite treading on hard gravel, and knocked at the white door frantically.

The man who answered it was disheveled, dressed in an open night shirt and loose trousers, and Brian’s heart sank when he saw the expression painted on his face.  
“Admiral Nelson!” he exclaimed.

“May boy? Why do you come here?” the man blinked, for he had not seen Brian up close for a while, and certainly not on his doorstep half-wet and red-faced, puffing from running uphill at great speeds.

Brian held up the key that he had found, the iron now marked into his fingers from clutching it so hard. “Is (Y/N) home? Is she safe?”

The Admiral’s face fell. “No,” he murmured. “She wasn’t home this morning. I hoped she was just out for a walk, or perhaps with you…” His fists clenched and unclenched. “This is a graver situation than I imagined.”

Brian swallowed, then. (Y/N) was missing. Why? _How?_ He thought of the blue sea, remembered his sister, who’d swam out into the waves one night and washed up on the shore in the morning, battered and sliced open from being flung against the rocks: dead.  
The ocean was hungry; like a creature it breathed, swallowed whole, spewed up its dregs; it was both beautiful and fatal at the same time. And with everything, he hoped that his friend had not been exposed to peril at its hand.


	2. II. The Mercury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Freddie & Roger (briefly) in this chapter, folks! Enjoy xx

II.

Brian’s fork scraped the steamed parsnip on his plate, stabbed the sliver of lamb with the prongs. He was hungry, but the prospect of eating seemed insulting. A whole day and no sign of (Y/N). Nobody was doing anything, and the waiting tore him up inside.  
He didn't - couldn’t - understand! She wasn’t dead! She was _gone_ ; the most likely explanation was that she was snatched by something or someone, and yet, there had been no effort to go after her.  
It was true, they didn’t know where she was; whether she’d disappeared at the hand of the sea or the land. The silence was infuriating. Brian couldn’t stop fidgeting. He wanted to run out into the waves and scream.  
But he couldn’t do anything.  
The helplessness tugged at him. It was just like his sister. He hadn’t been there to help her, save her. If only he’d gone out last night to check the stars instead of studying his books by the window! 

“It’s not your burden,” his father told him, as they sat at the table. “She’s always been a fiery woman. Her father has sent for help in all the ways he can.”

“Still…” Brian murmured. 

Sea fatalities were common in Friary Cove and surrounds. Despite the coastal village being home to farmers and fishermen, the ocean was still constant: unpredictable.  
Brian felt anger rise up in his chest. Here he was, sitting in his family’s little cottage, eating boiled vegetables, wasting his youth while others died or were lost to forces greater than human.

Brian suddenly had the urge to run away, to do something more with his life. He wanted to see the stars, properly, not just from laying down on the ground and gazing up at the sky. He wanted to know about God and the planets and the rest of the world, what was on the other side of the globe. He’d heard of the region of Australasia and its hot climate, hotter than wretched England, where storms came frequently and left everyone drenched and miserable, shuffling around in their waterlogged bodies.  
He wanted to earn his own pennies honestly and buy his own books and build his own house with a fireplace, and save up for a telescope, like the one Galileo Galilei had invented two centuries ago.  
If (Y/N) had been lost, and at such a young age, then Brian was wasting his time, here. He ought to do something before his time ran out too.

But what? And, how?

*

A small sailboat pulled into Friary Cove that night: with thin black sails, it was almost undetectable. A pirate alighted, stepped off the dock and followed the path into the town, under the cover of darkness. His identity wouldn’t have mattered or made much difference. There were many travellers who came here, passed through, and the residents asked no questions, saved themselves the trouble of knowing too much. The tavern was full and ale was in excess, and the man bought a drink. He sat in the corner, listened to the talk, an outsider with no story.

At the mention of a particular woman, his ears pricked.  
_The Admiral’s daughter had gone missing, stolen, probably taken by the sea,_ they said.  
Fascinating! But unfortunate!  
Indeed, he’d been sent to get her, himself. Sent by his pirate captain: a terrifying young man with a fiery temper and a low tolerance for insubordination. If he returned empty-handed, he knew he would find his death upon the captain’s sword. And yet, there was no choice.  
No choice but to go back. The sea called, and the pirate slipped back into the shadows as swiftly as he came.

*

(Y/N) flinched as a hessian bag was pulled off her head, her hands tied behind her back with harsh rope, wrists itching and red from where it had rubbed against the skin. She was, from what she could infer, on board a ship, but not on the deck. Her memory faded in and out and she couldn’t remember the journey from the shore to the ship. Much less, how she’d gotten there, and by whose hand she’d been transported. She could tell she was in a room, but it was dark and smelled like the lavender that grew in her garden. It must’ve been the ship’s cabin, perhaps even of the captain. (Y/N) sat on the floor, her bare legs crossed, knee still cut open from when she’d slipped off the beachrock. The waves rocked the vessel, and the rain outside pelted against the walls and windows of the cabin. Slowly, (Y/N)’s vision returned, eyes adjusting to the dimly lit room. 

The walls were painted maroon, and in front of her was a large wooden desk, made from red oak; behind it, a cabinet, and to her right, a chaise lounge with red velvet upholstery.  
Sitting on it was a man: his dark eyes met her own, but he did not seem at once to be threatening or intimidating.  
He smiled gently, his voice echoing through the chamber.

“Ah, she _is_ a stunner, isn’t she?” to the members of his crew that stood behind her, then, “hello, my darling.”

(Y/N) bit her lip. The man had an accent like she’d never heard. He was extraordinary to look at: he had sharp cheekbones and a firm jaw, and plump lips that pulled into a smirk. His eyes were dark but seemed to be kind, his lids painted with something that made his brown irises stand out, and his ebony hair hung gently in a wave at his shoulders. He was dressed in vibrant colours; his shirt was blue satin, the colour of the sea, unbuttoned to reveal a tanned chest covered with hair, neck adorned with golden chains, the shirt tapered out into bell sleeves. His boots were shiny black and had platform heels. On top his head was a huge hat, with a fluffy purple plume tucked against the brim.

(Y/N) had never seen anyone like him. Surely he was not a pirate, but officers and navy-men did not dress like this. She listed all the nautical professions she remembered in her head, but none she remembered seemed to fit with the description of the man in front of her. 

“Who are you?” escaped her lips.

The man laughed. “My name is not relevant. But you, my darling, are. Do you know why you’re here?”

She shook her head.

“Very well, I shall tell you.” He rose then, walked to the cabinet and poured himself a drink.  
Turned back to face the crew. “Oh, for goodness sake, untie her.”

A crewman severed the rope with a sharp dagger and (Y/N) brought her hands together and rubbed them gently where the material had been, applying pressure to banish the pain.

“Sit, if you like,” the man motioned to the lounge, and she did so.

“Here.” He walked over, the clack of his heels against the wooden floor. “Drink.” His hand extended towards her, holding a glass with amber inside. 

“I really can’t… Women are -”

“- nonsense, darling, you’re at sea, now. Most of the laws from where you’re from don’t apply here. Drink. It’ll warm you up.” He shook the glass.

(Y/N) took the liquor, sipped it down gently. He was right. The golden buzz spread down her throat and she felt her body pool with warmth.

“Now… Firstly I do apologise for the way my crew unceremoniously kidnapped you. You made it extremely easy for them though! How often do we find what we want lying on the shore in front of us? But it was a rough journey so please accept my condolences.  
However, you are here because I want something from you, and I will get it by whatever means I have to. Violent or peaceful, you can decide.”  
He gulped his own drink, finished it and poured another.  
“It seems you’re a woman of great misfortune. You see, recently, there’s been talk on the seas about your father.”

“My father? What does he have to do with anything?”

“Well, my dear… Your father used to be in the navy. As an Admiral, am I correct?” 

A nod from (Y/N). “Yes, he’s retired.”

“Yes.” The man continued.  
“Well it seems that many years ago… perhaps while you were very young, or even before you were born, he held the highest rank. A great responsibility, that. And one day he found a young man committing a crime at sea. Because that man was young, he let him go without a trial, without even a warning. Which is all very well and good if, like your father, you believe in forgiveness and justice. But unfortunately for all the rest of us, that turned out to be a _very bad_ decision. You see, this man was a thief and a liar… and a cheat. And now, instead of hanging for his crime when he was meant to, he took it to mean that he could get away with it. And NOW, he is out there, sailing the seas, with a cutthroat crew causing terror!” 

“What does this have to do with my father?” (Y/N) growled. “I don’t know anything about this! I’m sure it’s not that bad! Whatever he did!”

At this, the man rose. “Not that bad?! Damn your ‘not that bad’!” He sighed. “I suppose you know nothing about it. This man is killing pirates and their crews, sailing for gold and authority over the seas.”

“Why do you care?” (Y/N) asked. “If he’s killing pirates, there’ll just be less of them to cause havoc.”

“Less of them for _you_! But consider our perspective: pirates being slaughtered means that this one becomes the ultimate warrior! You may not think it, but the ocean is large enough for all of us; and we rarely quarrel violently, unless we have a vendetta or a debt to be repaid. This is a man who threatens to command the waters _on his own_ , with no balance. If he becomes the only pirate, he becomes the richest man on the seas, the most _dangerous 'i' Tag_ man on the seas. He becomes the only authority! He would challenge only your naval forces, which will be a disaster for your government. He gets to make the laws as he desires and determine the fate of men who live for the sea!”

“But… they’re pirates!!” (Y/N) cried out. “I... just don’t see the value of their freedom! They’re murderers, rapists, cutthroat savages who are fugitives from the law!”

“Not everything is that black and white, my dear,” the man purred. “Not every man sailing the seas is guilty of horrible crimes.”

“Like you?” she tried.

At this, the man paused, inhaled. “Perhaps.”

“You don’t look like a pirate.”

“What does a pirate look like?” he smiled, lips revealing protruding white teeth. “You don’t look much like an Admiral’s daughter, sitting on my chair in your embroidered silk nightgown, with your knee stained red.”

(Y/N) felt self-consciousness tug at her, then. She squeezed her legs tighter, folded her arms. 

“So what is it that you want from me?” she murmured.

“Ah! I want to trade.”

“I have nothing to offer of my own.”

“No,” the man laughed. “I want to trade you.”

“Me?” (Y/N)’s throat dried. “What… I…”

“You see, dear, we - us _pirates_ , that is - know that things could get very, very bad for us soon. So among us, there’s word out for your capture. Whomever holds you on his ship has immunity from this pirate’s forces, so long as he can bargain. If I can give you to him, then he’ll let me live, allow me my freedom.”

“What aren’t you telling me about him?” (Y/N) growled. Her question seemed to catch the man off guard, because he rose suddenly. “Do you know him?”

“The nature of his crime…” the man trailed off. “It’s true. We have history:  
My father was a spice merchant, many years ago, selling cloves and the like. We lived in Zanzibar, which, you should know, is a colony known for its trade. My father ran a successful spice stall, and this man came to buy spices. Only, he didn’t want to buy them. He wanted to take them. So he tried to steal them, and my father refused to let him get away with it. He smashed my father’s spice pots onto the stone, and captured my father. Took him on board his own ship, as a slave. Beat him into submission.

‘As he was sailing away, the Admiral discovered him; found him holding an unwilling slave. He was on the deck of his ship; he could see it happen before his very eyes! My father by all rights was a free man. He had his own business, he did well for us, he had a family. It’s against the law for men to make slaves of other free men.  
He cried out to your father to save him, and his pleas were ignored. The Admiral sailed away in his navy vessel, onto more important things.

‘You see your father everyday, I presume. Well, I never saw mine again. My mother had no way of saving the business, so she used her body as a means of supporting us instead. But this didn’t help much. My mother saved every penny she could spare, and sent me to England when I was thirteen.  
She wrote to me for three years, and I haven’t heard since. She’s probably dead! My sister too. All of them, dead.”

“I’m sorry,” (Y/N) murmured.

“Sorry? Sorry?!” The man yelled at her, fire burning in his eyes. “Don’t you dare speak to me about 'sorry'. You don’t know a thing of it.”

Then, he pulled something from the drawer of the desk, stood up and walked swiftly to her.  
(Y/N) flinched as he kneeled in front of her, grabbed her knee with his hand, dug his fingers into the soft flesh so hard her leg jerked up and she knew she would bruise purple. 

“You’re mine now. I got to you first, and I’ll make sure everyone knows it.”

With that, she saw a glint of metal and screamed out as the tip of a dagger pressed against her breast, just below her collarbone. The man dragged it around her flesh, into a spiral. His eyes followed the trajectory of the blood as scarlet droplets appeared, ran down her chest.  
(Y/N)’s breath was sharp and her flesh stung from where the metal had sliced her open. It was deep enough to scar. 

“You’re a monster,” she hissed.

“We’re all monsters, darling,” the man growled back at her. “I want my father back, but if I can’t have him, I’ll just take you from yours, make sure he knows how much it hurts to never see his little girl again.”

With that, he pried the glass of alcohol she’d been nursing out of her fingers, splashed it onto her chest to sanitise the wound. (Y/N) screamed, hands balling into fists. She went to grab the man, scratch him, hit, anything, but he was too quick, clasping her wrists and holding her down at a distance.  
(Y/N) felt the hot sting of tears as they welled in her eyes and poured down her cheeks, her lip quivering as she sobbed. 

She tried to process everything, struggled; this man had secured her fate. She was on a foreign ship, with no way of getting home, and a vendetta against her and her father.  
And while she wasn’t one to give up, the prospect of rescue or escape seemed bleak. 

Then, the man’s demeanor changed as she began to wail, saliva falling from her lips and running down her chin.

“Don’t cry, darling,” he fretted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to be this way… I thought I’d better tell you my intentions instead of leading you on, but, it seems I’ve done you a disservice.” 

His fingers found her cheeks, wiped the tears away. (Y/N) met his eyes, and saw at once that they were mournful. 

“My name is Freddie,” he tried, voice soft. “And yours?”

“I’m (Y/N),” she replied, her voice cracking as she choked out the syllables. 

“Well, (Y/N), I’ll try to make you as comfortable as I can while you sail upon the Mercury. But I do, regretfully, still have to hand you over.” He held out a hand, adorned with decorative rings.

(Y/N) took his hand, allowed him to pull her to her feet. 

“What’s his name? The pirate, I mean,” (Y/N) asked.

Freddie inhaled, bit his lip. 

“I suppose there’s no harm in you knowing:  
His name is Edward Morgan Innswood. And he sails on board The Trident.”

*

“Did you get the girl?” was the raw purr. English, but he’d been at sea too long to retain any clear accent. “I _asked for her_ specifically. Where is she?” The voice belonged to a pirate captain, a wild man, with the name of Roger and the demeanour of a serpent. 

“Sir… my lord, I….” the crewman flinched as the tip of a sword drew to his throat, pricked until he had drops of scarlet pooling above his clavicles.  
“Someone else got to her first!”

“What?!” came the hiss. “Incompetent fool! Why are you still here, then?”

“Pardon, Lord?”

The blonde man locked eyes with his crewman. His irises were as pale as the sky before the rain, the corners of his lips pulled into a snarl. “Why did you decide to come back and face me?” Then, the final blow. “You should’ve thrown yourself into the ocean.”

“Please… I… thought I could make it up to you,” was the reply. “In the way I know you like it.” The crewman’s hands reached out to brush against the pirate’s neck, toy with the threads of fabric, trail down, until he was able to tug on his belt buckle, rub against his crotch.  
The pirate removed his sword from his crewman’s neck, slid it into its sheath, head cocked to the side.

“What’s your offer, seaman?”

At this, the man crumbled, fell onto his knees in front of his leader, hands shaking as he undid the zipper and grasped desperately, forced himself to bring his mouth closer. 

The pirate spat to the side, laughing, completely unaffected by the man’s desperation. “What do you think I am, a common slut? Do you think you get to choose? Besides, why would I take your mouth when i can dock tomorrow and find a wench or three?”

At this, the man cried. “Please.. Please…” he murmured. “Please, I’ll do anything.”

The pirate sighed, unamused. “Stand up.”

He complied.

“Take off your shirt.”

At this, fear flashed in the crewman’s eyes. Roger noted it. The man pulled his shirt off, his flesh scarred with wounds from combat. 

“Now your pants.”

“Here… on the deck, Sir?”

“Yes,” the pirate hissed. “Here, on the deck. What’s wrong, _shipmate_ ? You’d be caught with my cock in your mouth but not with your own out? Coward.”

The man bit his lip, pulled his pants down, tossed his clothes to the side. Goosebumps appeared on his skin, the spittle of the rain making him shiver. Roger eyed him up and down, pulled his sword out, poked the tip through the clothes until he had them hanging on the metal. With a smile, he tossed them over the side of the ship. The fabric disappeared into the black water. 

Roger edged forwards, licking his lips. It was true what they said about him; he was beautiful in a way, almost like a siren. With his feminine features and the curve of his cupid’s bow, and his golden locks that fell to his waist, tangled with sea spray and knots. His shirt was unbuttoned, revealing tanned flesh and tufts of scarce blonde hair; his chest marked with scars, burns, the botched ink of a tattoo that had faded against his skin. His belt buckle cinched his waist in, pulled tight the fabric of his pants, a reminder of his raw masculinity. 

“Do you like what you see?” the pirate purred wickedly, eyes dragging down the naked body of the man in front of him, and his voice was smooth as honey. 

They called him The Golden Death for a reason, and as the crewman stood naked, he realised why. It was all a distraction.  
He cried out as the pirate’s sword flicked out in front of him, sliced in between his legs, his thighs warm with the rush of hot blood. He grabbed his crotch and blood welled up over his hands, his flesh falling in chunks to the deck of the ship.  
It was over, now. Roger’s boots washed with red, and his sword dragged up the man’s flesh to slice him from groin to neck, hard enough to bleed him out, but gentle enough to leave him alive for a few moments of agony.

“Jump over,” the captain purred, almost as a challenge. “Go on.” 

The crewman swallowed. His legs were numb. His hand reached out to find the side of the ship, felt the wood prick splinters into his thumb. His breath came out harshly, and his flesh split away on either side of his body as he breathed. Slowly, he sat on the side of the ship, curled his legs over the edge, faced the dark water; his death sentence.

The pirate wasted no extra time. His boot found the man’s back, plunging him into the water below. He watched as his shipmate fell over the side, white flesh engulfed by black ocean, red blood pooling out into the sea. 

The pirate zipped his pants up, sheathed his sword. Incompetence. He had missed out on the girl. But her village would be a valuable source of information. Roger spat onto the deck, turned on his heel and returned to the comfort of his cabin. The wind whipped around him, the golden sails of the ship blowing in their wake, and the sea, once again, was silent.


	3. III. The Golden Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! So here we are with a third chapter! Fair warning: this is the last chapter I have saved onto my Google Drive so there will probably be a bit of a wait until I can post the next chapter, since I actually have to write it now. Bear with me though! John is not far from appearing.
> 
> We get to meet Roger properly in this chapter, folks! He's a bit mean! Watch out!
> 
> Also, a massive thank you to my lovely friend [briansmayflower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/briansmayflower) who read this chapter for me and gave me some much needed advice! (She's writing a fantastic historical Queen fic which you should definitely check out!)
> 
> Happy reading x

III.

The hearth crackled gently, warm flames rising in golden licks from the wood.  
Brian nursed an ale against his chest, sat uncomfortably on the barstool that was too small for his lanky body, knees pressed tightly against the wooden counter. 

He’d been walking, out on the plateau. How long for, he wasn’t sure. At least a good few hours. He’d climbed to the highest point and watched the moon for a while. She was unchanging, the moon. Like a solitary mother, watching the world turn, lovingly, but silent, for better or worse.  
The wind made him shiver and he’d rolled his sleeves down, blinked gently, walked to the yellow glow of the tavern in the centre of the village, desperate for human connection. 

Brian sat now, in the midst of the working men, returned tired after another long day out in the fields. They drank freely and laughed wearily, and he felt out of place amongst them, save for the few who made gentle conversation. 

“You’re not thirsty, are you?” The tavern owner asked gently. Brian flinched, blinked. He stared at his ale; it was still full to the brim. He’d taken only a few sips.

“Not particularly, I suppose,” he replied. 

The tavern owner leaned closer. He was an older man, of about 47, with the name of Morris. He was short, at least compared to Brian, and stocky, and he had three sons, but they’d all left Friary Cove to study in England, become scholars. How Brian envied them.

“Are you alright, May?” Morris murmured. “You seem blue.”

“I’m fine, truly!” Brian smiled. “Just bored. Life’s running away, isn’t it?”

“You’re still young!” Morris assured him. “You have your whole life ahead of you, May. I remember when you were a wee lad, running naked on the sand and crying when the water touched your feet!” - Brian blushed - “Wait and see: one day you’ll move away from here, become a scientist, own your own home, have a wife who adores you and a couple of kids!”

The enthusiasm didn’t seem to cheer him up, so Morris tried with something else.

“Boy, you can see a lot from your little cottage on the shoreline, can’t you? Have you noticed the ships that’ve been sailing into the Cove as of recent times?” 

“Ships?” Brian frowned. “No, I… what ships?”

Morris shrugged. “Just travellers, probably. One last week, around the same time that your lady friend disappeared. The next one, only the day or two after. It docked, then someone came into the tavern. Bought a drink, like you, and sat in that corner for a good few hours. Didn’t say anything to anyone, and then promptly left.”

“Odd…” Brian trailed off. He paused for a moment, lips pulling into a thin line.  
“Morris… do you think that (Y/N) was kidnapped and taken by one of those men? Taken on board a ship, I mean.”

At this, the man laughed, a big booming laugh. Then he frowned, stared back at Brian, saw the worry painted on the younger man’s face.  
“Aye, lad. Perhaps you’re onto something… maybe, maybe she was. But… well, we can’t do much, can we?”

“No, I suppose you’re right,” Brian murmured. He took a swig of the ale and noticed the way the golden light from the fire made the liquid shine amber.  
Morris was right. There was nothing they could do. Unless…

Brian’s jaw tightened. He took another sip, then another, and another, until he had gulped half the glass. _He_ could go. The next ship that came in, docked at the Cove; he could steal away. Not just to find (Y/N), but perhaps to see the world, or at least, to get a different perspective. And it didn’t have to be forever. It could be for six months, or a year, or two. He could always return home.  
The ocean was vast, but there was an opportunity in its wake.  
With all these ships docking recently, Brian was sure to find someone who was willing to have an extra hand on deck.

He swallowed down the rest of his drink, left the glass on the counter and took off, back home. The rain began again during his journey. There would be another storm tonight.

When he arrived, Brian pulled a rucksack from under his bed, emptied it, packed lightly:  
A map of the known world he’d left on his desk, a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets, the New Testament, and the worn copy of Newton’s _Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica_ that (Y/N) had given him, stolen directly from her father’s library.  
It wasn’t much, but it was all he had to his name.

In that moment, Brian wished he could pack the light from his candles and his favourite shell he’d found on the beach as a child, and the drawing of his sister he’d done years ago, that had made her laugh with a toothy grin when he’d shown it to her, and made him cry when he saw it the day after he’d held her lifeless body in his arms.

*

The sun was fading behind the horizon as Roger’s ship sailed closer to port; under the cover of nightfall he could dock, find a meal and a woman, and garner any inside information about who exactly had stolen the Admiral’s daughter out from under him. This sea town looked promising; it was sparse, but still substantial. The yellow glow of lamp light shone through the windows, and he could faintly make out the music coming from the tavern in the centre of the road.  
The row boat was lowered, and Roger slid down a rope until his boots found the rocking wood.  
He had informed his crew that he would be back within 2 rises of the moon; if not, they were to sail away and leave him.  
The rope was raised again, and Roger sat down in the wooden structure, rowed calmly and quietly until he reached the dock. From there, he tied the boat up with the other fishing boats; there was nothing like hiding in plain sight.  
He clambered up the dock and walked onwards into the town, gold hair billowing behind him.

Brian’s eyes widened as he saw the pirate captain tie his boat up at the dock. He’d been on his way to check his own boat for any holes after yesterday’s storm when he’d noticed the ship on the horizon. A big ship, with yellow sails. He knew exactly who it belonged to. 

Years ago, there had been a tale of a farm-hand no more than 19 or 20 years old, named R.M. Taylor, who had stumbled upon his young wife in bed with another man upon returning home. It had been said that in his rage, Taylor had stabbed his wife to death and burnt his own house down, leaving the man to die engulfed in flames. Taylor had fled, but was discovered the next morning by officials in the next town over. He was drunk out of his mind and had brawled with the other people in the tavern, causing damage to property and minor injuries. He was found asleep in the bed of the youngest daughter of the tavern owner, who was 16 at the time and betrothed to a navy man. Taylor was promptly arrested and tried for numerous crimes: double murder, arson, rape, drunkenness. Although the evidence for all of them was scarce, he had been known to be a troublemaker in some capacity, and this condemned him. Found guilty on all counts, the judge sentenced the young man to hang.  


Brian’s favourite part of the story was that on the day of the hanging, Taylor had broken out of his cell by smuggling a cube of butter and rubbing it all over his body and the iron bars, allowing him to slide easily through the gaps in the bars. How he _actually_ did so, nobody knew or could prove. He stole a row-boat, sailed out to sea at dawn, joined the first pirate crew that found him rocking on the waters, and was free.  
But Brian also knew that Taylor, a fugitive, had become one of the most talked-about legends in recent times. He was the captain of his own ship, and his name at sea was The Golden Death.  


Taylor was famed to be beautiful, like a seductive woman, with long blonde hair and big blue eyes, and a soft voice that purred with honey tones. Seamen often made the mistake of thinking his looks dictated his character. But the pirate was known to kill savagely, and torture without reserve. Sometimes, his whole crew washed up on shore, or rather, the pieces of them that were left.  
Many a story had been spread about hostages and crew alike losing their appendages, or being tossed overboard with an open wound they wouldn’t recover from.  
It was well-known that wherever Taylor docked, he left women in his wake, a painful constant reminder, Brian thought, of the only one who couldn’t love him enough.

This meant trouble. But perhaps, Taylor would know the whereabouts of (Y/N), or at least be able to get closer to her location. If Brian could join his crew, be on amicable terms, he might have a chance at rescuing her, bringing her home safely.  
His stomach stirred with the prospect of danger. It was true, he lead a simple life; fishing each day and never having to deal with too much trouble. And yet, as the wind blew against his curls, sent shivers down his spine, he knew that this was an opportunity that he couldn’t pass up. After all, his bag was packed.  
Abandoning any decision to check the boat for damage, Brian waited until he saw Taylor follow the gravel path into the main square, and followed him silently. 

*

“Excuse me, Sir,” Brian murmured as he stood in front of the golden-haired man, who was lounged across a bench against the wall, a woman on either side of him. His heart pounded in his chest and he was sure everyone in the tavern would be able to hear it beating, even in this corner where the golden fire burned in the hearth. No response.  
“Excuse me.”

Roger pulled his lips away from the breasts of one of the wenches. He met Brian’s gaze, confusion painted on his expression. 

_"What?"_ he snapped. “Can’t you see I’m busy? God, you’re just a _boy._ Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to interrupt a _pirate?_ Begone, before I skin you.”

“I’m not a boy!” Brian exclaimed. “I’m probably just as old as you are! And anyways, I want to talk to you.”

Roger groaned. He stood up, pushing the women off his lap with a thud. He was smaller than Brian, and yet, his energy exuded raw power in a way Brian had never felt, as if he was untouchable, even though he was close enough to grasp.

“Make it good, commoner, or I _will_ kill you.”

Brian’s throat went dry as he inhaled. “Uh… I know who you are. I’ve heard of you.”

“So?”

“I know they call you the Golden Death. But that’s not your name. Your name is Taylor, initials R.M., and I know that you’re a pirate. That’s you, isn’t it? But you weren’t always a seaman. You were just a farmer, with a family. I also know you lose your crew… regularly… and, well, I… I’d like to join your... new... crew when you leave this port.”

Roger’s eyes dragged up and down Brian’s face. Correct, all of it. But why the proposition? The boy couldn’t have been more than twenty three. Nobody chooses to be a pirate.  
“What’s in it for you?”

“See the ocean up close,” Brian lied.

“What’s in it for me?” a sly smile.

Brian had nothing. He couldn’t offer gold, nor riches, no land or title, no protection.  
“I know how to catch fish…” he tried.

Roger laughed. “Fish. Fucking fish. I’ve had enough of stinking, rotten fish. Leave me alone.” He turned away, grabbing one of the women by her forearm and pulling her to her feet, dragging her towards the door of a room he'd rented overnight.  


Brian followed quickly. “I can read the stars! I can build things, and translate maps.”  


_Please,_ he thought, _please, I’ll do anything. I need to be on that ship!_  
He entered the room after the pirate as Roger flung the woman onto the bed, unzipped his trousers and pulled them halfway down his thighs.

“Please, let me come with you!” Brian panted.

Roger turned around. “Are you going to watch me, kinky bastard?” as he shoved a hand into his pants. “You are the most irritating person I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting. If I see your face again, I’ll burn your entire village to cinders.”

Brian swallowed, backed away until he was at the door frame.

“If you’re so desperate to be under my command, send the other woman in,” Roger growled. “Then piss off until the morning. If you can scrub a deck and hang a sail, you can come. But” - he frowned - “if you say one more word to me I’ll cut your tongue out and throw it overboard for the fish.” 

_Thank you,_ Brian exclaimed silently. He backed away, jogged out into the hall until he found the woman Roger had referred to. She was now laying on the floor, her finger swirling the white foam in the glass he'd left behind, dress hiked up to the thighs, and Brian’s chest hurt to pull her to her feet and lead her to the bedchamber.  
“I’m sorry,” he whispered over and over. 

The door was still slightly ajar and Brian saw a blur of blonde through the gap, bodies rocking back and forth. He shoved the woman and her hands found the handle of the door and opened it wider, stepping through. Brian heard the pirate’s fricative grunts, closed the door quickly after her so he wouldn’t have to imagine the details. 

*

As the sun rose, Brian’s eyes flickered open. The sunrise was painting the sky a golden hue, orange dripping into the horizon where the sky met the sea. He hoped he wasn’t late. Indeed, he’d been asleep against the stone wall for hours, not wanting to miss his opportunity to join Taylor’s crew. He’d dashed home quickly and retrieved his rucksack, and had been using it to prop his head against the tavern’s exterior. Whether the pirate would keep his word or not, Brian wasn’t sure. There was only one way to find out.  
He pulled himself up to his feet, fingers brushing against the carved stone, rubbed his eyes as a yawn took him. 

“Still here, then?” a voice from the doorway. Brian jumped.  
“So you _are_ scared of me. That’s a good start.” It was Roger.

“I’m ready to go,” Brian turned to face him.

Roger inhaled deeply. “Right.” He gazed at the horizon, swallowed. “Give me ten minutes.”

“But why?” Brian exclaimed. “You’re up, dressed, let’s go!!” He reached to grab Roger by the shoulder, but then pulled away, remembering who he was addressing. If he placed a finger on the pirate, he knew he’d probably lose it. 

Roger turned around then, eyes brushing up and down the man who stood so eagerly in front of him. His expression was painted with… sorrow?  
“Don’t be too hasty to board a ship, son. Your feet are used to this ground. Your body will miss everything else that walks on it and you’ll wish you never came.”  
His knee slipped between Brian’s legs, dragged gently, making Brian flinch with the touch.  
“Give me ten minutes.” It was a command.

Then, Roger was off, back to the room where he’d bedded overnight.  
He returned shortly, shirt unbuttoned, hair tied back with a ribbon he’d plucked from one of the women, a lingering stain on the front of his pants that the ocean would wash away.  
Without so much as a word, Roger left the building, Brian following behind him at a quickened pace. He was tall, and he caught up to the man in swift strides.  
They walked for yards, until they reached the dock. There was a rowboat, and upon it, two oars.

Roger climbed in easily, his boots thumping against the wood.  
Brian followed after him, grasping for the oars.

“Wh.. where’s your ship?” he murmured. 

Roger pointed out to the horizon, where the faint outline of a ship stood stark against the sky.  
“There she is: The Cross, her name is." His gaze lingered on the horizon for a moment, as if he'd forgotten Brian. "Row,” Roger commanded, leaning back with legs spread and arms folded behind his head, and Brian did so. “So, tell me boy,” the pirate sighed. “You seem like a reasonably good lad. Why on earth are you really following me out into the big blue? Surely there’s a decent future here for you. You do realise that I am not good company, I hope.”

No answer from Brian, so the pirate tried again.  
“Have you left any woman back there? Anyone who will cry for you?” 

Brian shot him a glance. “Why, so you can drag her into a chamber and whore her?”

Roger’s lips curled up at the sides. Attitude, already. “No, so you can.”  
He cocked an eyebrow. “It’s the thing I miss most when I’m at sea,” he elaborated, “the warm flesh, the way they taste, the way they _feel_ wrapped around me.”

“You don’t need to tell me this,” Brian retorted. “I really don’t care. I’m just here to join your crew.” 

“So you’ve never been with anyone, then?” the pirate laughed, “well, you won’t even have an incentive to stay alive on the seas. Really, are you _sure_ this life is for you?” He was teasing now.

Brian blushed, his gaze dropping as he tried to block out the pirate’s words. “I’m just here to do a job.”

“God, you’re strange,” Roger mused. “Alright then. If you don’t want me to talk to you, I’ll just revert back to how I normally treat my crew.”

“And how is that?” Brian growled. He was growing impatient; the oars were rubbing against the flesh of his palms, and he could feel the beginnings of blisters form under his skin.

“With a good old-fashioned taste of violence and villainy.” 

Blue eyes met hazel, then. Roger’s fingers went to his sword, stroked the hilt.

“If you do well, you keep all your fingers. If not, I slice off every digit slowly. Mmmmm. Maybe tongue first, then thumbs, perhaps then your ears. You don’t need both of your eyes, either. Maybe, pretty boy, your cock will go next so you can never touch a woman. Or possibly you’ll just be lost to the sea, a nobody who never existed past the day you sailed out of this shore with me. No-one will ever remember you. And the family you’ve left behind will tell their children not to go near the water, but their memories won’t serve them to say why. Understand?”

Brian nodded, his heart pounding in his chest. Roger was almost like a feline, golden and acute, but able to switch his demeanour to sly and vicious immediately. He watched the man’s fingers swirl around the hilt of his sword, and he believed every word.  
Roger didn’t look threatening, but Brian had heard that underestimating him was the mistake everyone made. This man could just as soon seduce him as he could slice him from head to toe with the tip of his blade, it seemed.

“What do I call you?” Brian swallowed.

The pirate thought about this for a moment. “Well, concerningly, you already know most of my name. You must tell me how you found out about me! One day, when we’re alone again. Nice to know there’s still talk. As for my name...Perhaps you can decide. Although,” he purred, “I am amenable to any derivation of Lordship.  
And yourself, what’s your family name?”

“May,” Brian replied. 

“Well, May. Pleasure to meet you.” The pirate held out his hand. Brian hesitated.

“Go on,” Roger prompted. “I’m not your captain until we get on board my ship. Right now, we’re just a pirate and a seaman, only I have a sword and you don’t.”

Brian clasped his hand, felt the firm grip, shook gently. 

“Here’s to the sea,” Roger chuckled. “Work hard, May. You might just be an asset to me.”

*

They reached Roger’s ship after thirty minutes of rowing.  
A rope was dropped over the helm by the remaining crew, and Roger tugged on it to ensure it was strong enough to carry his weight. He looped a foot around the rope and shuffled up it quickly, thighs tight as he hauled upwards. Brian watched from below; widening his stance as the boat rocked under him. He still had his rucksack thrown over his shoulder, and no doubt, it would weigh him down as he tried to climb.  
When Roger had made it to the ship, Brian clasped the rope tightly with both hands and jumped upwards so his feet were against its hull.  
His boots scraped against the wet wood and slipped, yanking his body down. He cried out, readjusting his hands on the rope, felt them burn against the threads, tried again to scramble up the ship’s edge.

“For goodness sakes, May, whatever is taking you so long?” Roger poked his head over the ship’s edge, laughed at the boy hanging desperately at the bottom.  
“You should learn to fuck; get those thighs working!” He laughed. 

Brian grunted in frustration, pulled himself upwards, legs hanging loosely, but this time his arms shook with the pressure and he felt them tingle with strain. _Great plan, Brian,_ he cursed, _asked to join a pirate ship and can’t even board it._ The rest of the ship’s crew was now looking over the edges of the ship to see what the problem was, and Brian growled as he tried to pull himself upwards, using any upper body strength he had.  
He heard the rumble of laughter as the pirate’s lips pulled into a smile. Biting hard on his lip, Brian reached higher for the rope and pulled his knees closer to his chest so he could swing upwards. He flinched as his feet hit the hull, his hand clasping against the rope, then his breath caught in his throat as his grip slipped and he plummeted down into the cold water. 

The blue engulfed him, and for a moment, all was calm, the cold sinking through his clothes and surrounding him; then, the rope hit him hard on the head, and as he came up to the surface, his hands found it. He spluttered, choking down the cold water, shivering.  
The rope tugged upwards and Brian clung to it as he was hauled to the deck of Roger’s ship by the pirate crew, falling onto the hard wooden floor on his hands and knees and releasing the rope. His rucksack was soaked through, no doubt his books damaged by the salty water.

Roger stood in front of him, impatient, and Brian’s head spun from the force in which he’d been pulled over the side of the ship.  
His body trembled, and with a cough he threw up, body lurching forwards. 

Roger sighed, his boots wet with sea water and bile.  
“Not a good start, May,” he warned. He lifted his boot and shook it, flicking Brian’s spew back at him. “I wish _I_ ate as well as you seem to, however.” 

“I’m sorry,” Brian choked, his throat burning, still dizzy. He’d soiled the front of his shirt, and hadn’t brought anything else with him to wear. 

Roger paid him no heed; instead, he turned around, leaving the man on the deck.  
The rest of the crew stood around, staring, contemplating, their lips pulled into tight lines. Brian pulled his gaze up to meet their eyes. They looked rough, not the kind of men that matched Roger in appearance or stature, and yet, this was probably for good reason.  
He pulled his shirt off, went to toss it overboard.

“Don’t do that,” a crewman called. “You’ll have nothing else otherwise. Squeeze it out, then wash your shirt when it rains.”

Brian hesitated, stared at the mess on the fabric.  
“What, you don’t wanna get your hands dirty?” the man chuckled. “You’re a pirate’s crewman, now, boy! Get used to it. There’s worse than that out here. Stay alive, by whatever means. Taylor is rough, a true buccaneer, but he knows if you’re loyal. If you’re on this ship, he obviously saw something in you.”

Brian nodded, a silent thanks as the crew member turned away, made himself busy with the sails. _Boy._ People kept using that word. Perhaps, he thought, by the time he was done on this ship he could be a man.


	4. IV. Acquaintances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alright: chapter 4.  
> Before we continue, I'm going to be honest. I'm not a fan of this chapter. At all.  
> I've felt horrible about it for the last few days and have been angry at myself while writing it.  
> However, I'm posting it despite this because if I do not, it will sit in my doc forever and be lost at sea, just like the reader.  
> But, I am persevering. 
> 
> I hope, at least, that if you read it you'll enjoy it. And good news: John is here! Albeit briefly, but nonetheless. More of him to come (obviously.)
> 
> Also, the sea shantie that is sung in this chapter is real! It's called "Neptune's Raging Fury, or the Gallant Seaman's Sufferings." It dates back to the 1600s. You can google full lyrics & even listen to audio! 
> 
> As a forewarning: if, like me, you have emetophobia: read this chapter with caution. 
> 
> Alright, that's all from me.  
> Enjoy & all that jazz x

IV.

 

An oil lamp burned gently in the corner of the office, bathing the room in a yellow glow.  
The clock read seventeen minutes past nine, and there were no signs of life save for the man sitting at the desk, dressed in a white cotton shirt and loose trousers, a coat draped over his shoulders. He would’ve gone to bed earlier, but there’d been a letter delivered to him as dusk had fallen, and he recognised the scribbled handwriting on the envelope immediately. It was from William Nelson, an old navy admiral who had mentored him on the seas. Indeed, he held his own job in the British Navy because of him.

Time stood still as his fingers brushed over the letter, then the faint scribble of a quill was heard as ink transferred onto new paper. Outside, silence, save for the echo of the wind against the walls.  
The man at the desk adjusted his glasses softly, using his forefinger.  
He shivered, pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders. Finished his letter and signed his name on the bottom.

 _“Peace and prosperity bless this journey and allow me to find your daughter swiftly and without hindrance._  
_May God keep her safe in the meantime._  
_With confidence,_  
_\- John R. Deacon.”_

He folded the paper and tucked the letter into an envelope, sealed it with red wax and pressed it with his stamp.

A horrid situation had transpired! John had never met Nelson’s daughter, but if she was missing at sea, it was unlikely he ever would. Few people survived as hostages. He had little choice in the matter, though. The Admiral’s request came as a forewarning; if he denied it, Nelson would take it up formally with the British Navy, and have an entire fleet on the case. So, he would oblige, as a favour.  
The legality of the situation was questionable, but no doubt, John’s superiors would also be receiving a letter of intention to send a ship out.  
Nelson was revered as a long-time hero; for him, they would not hesitate to dispatch a fleet.  
It may as well be John who sailed out to appease the request of his friend. He’d go tomorrow and ask to be on the vessel that sailed out to find Nelson’s daughter.  
After all, he owed him one.

*

(Y/N) jumped as someone’s fist pounded against the door of her room. She’d been sitting on the bed, licking her finger to rub the dried blood off her knee.  
Freddie had lead her to the room, which was below deck, told her to wait while he fetched something for her. Her heart still pounded in her chest and goosebumps covered her skin from the cold, but there was a small porthole in the room, and she could see the blue sea out of it. Miles and miles of it, neverending. It was much more vivid than when she looked at it from the shore; now that she was in the middle of it, there were so many colours she’d never seen before, couldn't put a name to. And despite being on board a strange ship, (Y/N) couldn’t help but feel a sense of wonder.  
The room she was cooped up in was small, cramped almost, with only a single bed and a shelf where an oil lamp rested, but (Y/N) much preferred it to being on a hammock, or having hessian over her head and her hands tied behind her back.

Freddie had commanded his crew to keep an eye on (Y/N), but not to harm her. Of course, if anything happened to her, he’d lose the immunity he so desperately wanted from Innswood, but it was an odd scenario, nonetheless: she’d never heard or read about pirates treating hostages this way. Cordially.  
Surely there was something amiss.

The knock brought her out of her thoughts.  
“Come in!” She called almost immediately, voice trembling.

It opened, and Freddie himself stood in the doorway. His hat was gone, now, but he was still dressed with immaculate flair.

“I brought you a dress, my darling,” he muttered, “so you’re not cold and exposed.” He gestured to her nightgown, to her exposed knees and ankles.

“Thank you,” (Y/N) murmured. Her eyes raked over it: it was a red velvet colonial dress, looked like it had been salvaged from the last century, with long billowing sleeves and a tight waist adorned with ribbons.

“If it doesn’t fit, I have a whole trunk of outfits you may choose from,” Freddie laughed.

“What, did you rob a King’s daughter?” (Y/N) prompted, carefully.

“Something like that,” Freddie purred. “Anyways, here.”

He held the dress out, and (Y/N) took it, felt the soft velvet under her fingers. It was dusty, but it was beautiful.  
Her stomach tightened as she looked at Freddie again; he was a peculiar man, and she wasn’t sure whether to trust him or shy away from his every advance.  
She’d read stories, after all, of pirates on the seas. Their flattery often wasn’t given freely.  
He lingered in the room for a moment, and then turned away.

“Come out when you’ve put it on, dear, and eat with us. We don’t have much, but I’m sure you’re hungry.”

Then, he was gone, a flash of blue as he closed the door behind him.

(Y/N) held the dress up, inspected it closely for a moment. It seemed as if it would fit.  
How peculiar. Every dress her father bought her was too big or too small, and although she loved him dearly, his good intentions often left a sour result. But Freddie… well, it seemed as if he’d matched her size perfectly, just by looking at her figure.

(Y/N) pulled her nightgown off, and for the first time in a while, her nakedness scared her. It would be only too easy for someone to come back into her room, find her unclothed. She quickly put the dress over her head and slid into it. It was tight, but it fit.  
She spun around, watching the bottom of the dress flick out and billow around her figure, and a smile pulled at her lips, then. If only Freddie had given her some shoes.  
But perhaps there were some in the trunk of clothes he’d mentioned.

(Y/N) went to the door, stepped outside the room, and followed the curve of the compartments until she found a ladder that lead upwards, presumably to the deck of Freddie’s ship: the Mercury, had he said it was called?

There was no wind, and the sun was hanging low in the sky; soon it would dip below the horizon. Already the pale blue sky was stained with pink streaks. Freddie and the rest of his crew sat on the deck, on top what seemed to be a large tattered rug, and one man played a strangely shaped stringed instrument with a flat surface and a curved body, using his fingers to pluck the strings.

“Ahhh, (Y/N)!” Freddie called, beckoning. “Come and sit with us!”

(Y/N) trod carefully closer, the wood of the deck cold under her feet.  
Freddie shuffled backwards, made his crew make room. He patted a spot next to him on the rug, and (Y/N) sat, made herself as comfortable as she could in such an uneasy situation. The crew’s eyes were on her, and her heart pounded in her chest. The only saving grace was that the dress was long, modest; she was not indecent.  
Yet, as (Y/N) looked around at the crew, she noticed that they were all dressed in strangely flamboyant clothes; billowy shirts, shiny pants, or wearing strange hats and scarves. Some of them had long hair, others had lined their eyes or were wearing rouge. And queerly enough, it seemed that a few of the crew members were women, or at least, looked to be feminine, despite being dressed in men’s clothes. Others had their shirts unbuttoned to reveal bandages wrapped around their chests, some even were wearing naval uniforms that they’d most likely stolen or taken off the bodies of dead sailors.

“Everyone, this is (Y/N)! She’s the Admiral’s daughter!” Freddie announced, then to her; “This is my crew, they’re a good bunch! Men, women, anyone is welcome on the Mercury, so long as they make a worthwhile and hardworking crew. Perhaps you’ll learn their names.”

One of the crew members held a plate out towards (Y/N); it was copper, and had on it hardtack biscuits; they were burnt, and shaped in odd circles. She took one and bit into it, feeling it crumble.  
Then, a pot of broth was offered to (Y/N), and Freddie scooped up the liquid using a bowl that was on the rug and handed it to her.

“We made soup,” he smiled. “We’re not very good cooks, but... Well, we thought we’d better try. Seeing as though you’re our guest tonight. I suppose you have a cook back home.”

“Yes,” (Y/N) confirmed. “Yes, we do.”

With no sign of a spoon in sight, (Y/N) brought the bowl to her lips, slurped gently. The soup was salty, and the vegetables in it were soggy. She saw a husk of an onion floating in the liquid, slices of chopped cabbage rising to the surface. Compared to the fish and the corn back home, the soup almost made her gag at the prospect of swallowing it all. Yet, (Y/N) hadn’t eaten for a while, and she gulped the broth down, letting it drip down her chin.

Freddie passed her a glass of rum. “Here, wash it down with this. It’s all we have.”

(Y/N)’s hand shook as she accepted the glass. Only one, she told herself. At home, she didn’t drink. That was a luxury only her father was allowed.  
Her mind wandered; and for a moment she saw herself, intoxicated to the point of passing out, while the crew gathered around to have their way with her. (Y/N) inhaled, bit her cheek. It wouldn’t happen if she was careful, she reassured herself. Still, her stomach flipped with fear, like a shadow, looming behind her that she couldn’t see.

She sipped the liquor slowly, let the warmth spread through her body, down to her fingertips.

“Will you sing us a Shantie?” Freddie asked, but it was a command. “Surely your father taught you some? Let’s be merry.”

“I really can’t sing that well,” (Y/N) whispered, breath catching in the back of her throat as her cheeks stained red. “Please, I… I really can’t.”

“Nonsense!” Freddie cried out. “If you’re wonderful, you’ll bring us joy with you voice, and if you’re terrible, well then we’ll know never to ask again. Besides, you’d be better than some of my crew. Come on, dear.” He clapped twice.

“My father used to sing one specifically. It was popular on the journeys at sea. I think... I don’t remember what it was called.”

(Y/N) felt her heart pound in her chest as she opened her mouth to sing, felt her throat dry up, tears well in her eyes. But perhaps her life depended on it. So she sang:

 _“Ye gentlemen of England,_  
_That live at home at ease,_  
_Little do you think upon_  
_The dangers of the seas._  
_Give ear unto the mariners,_  
_And they will plainly show,_  
_The cares and the fears,_  
_When the stormy winds do blow.”_

Freddie nodded, encouraging her further.

 _“All you that will be seamen,_  
_Must bear a valiant heart,_  
_For when you come upon the seas,_  
_You must not think to start;_  
_Not once to be faint hearted,_  
_In hail, rain, blow or snow._  
_Nor to think for to shrink_  
_When the stormy winds do blow._

 _The bitter storms and tempests_  
_Poor seamen must endure,_  
_Day and night with many a fright,_  
_We seldom rest secure._

 _Our sleep is disturbed,_  
_With visions strange to know,_  
_And with dreams on the streams,_  
_When the stormy winds do blow…”_

 “Keep going! Keep going!” Freddie laughed.

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember anymore,” (Y/N) murmured. “That’s all he used to sing to me.” At this, her heart fluttered. Her father. Sorrow twisted its way into her chest, lingered there as a lump in her throat formed.

“Bravo then!” Freddie clapped, “you must teach us, dear! Tomorrow! Now it’s my turn!”

At this, he jumped up, cleared his throat.

“What should I sing tonight?”

At once, there was an outburst of chatter from the crew, and they began to tap their plates against the deck with a rattle.

“Alright, I’ll sing an original!” Freddie laughed, clapping to silence the chatter.

He opened his mouth, and (Y/N)’s body froze immediately. He was a siren, she was sure. He hummed a scale, but with such melody that the hairs on her arms stood up.

Then, he sung:

 _“For many a lad who’s sailed at seas,_  
_Here’s a tune for he,_  
_For when the waters be all rough,_  
_He ought to think of me._  
_Oh, for I left my life on the shore_  
_But can’t be too mellow,_  
_A life at sea is grandiose,_  
_For here’s a wild fellow!_

 _Now here my lover stays behind,_  
_But I’ll remember them,_  
_perhaps soon my fate will find,_  
_My soul comes home again._

 _And in the evening homeward bound,_  
_My ship a lowly home;_  
_My boots return to the land we found_  
_and hearts connected, again alone.”_

*

(Y/N) lay on her bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The day had turned to night as Freddie and his crew had danced upon the deck, full of song and rum. Then, they’d all retired, back to their cabins, bidding her a good night.  
Freddie had clasped her hand and kissed it, “safe sleep,” falling from his lips.  
She half expected someone to come into her room, now, perhaps Freddie himself, seal her fate on board this ship. But as the minutes drew into hours, nobody came to touch her, and there was no sound except the rocking of the ship on the waves.  
Memories of her father flooded her memory; the last time she’d seen him, he’d been sitting at his desk, reading a book, laughing at the words when he thought she couldn’t hear him.  
(Y/N) hardly noticed her tears until she felt the hot sting of them rolling down her cheeks, staining her neck.  
She rolled onto her stomach, pressed her face into the pillow; her body shook as she wept. And when she had cried so hard that her throat was sore and her eyes were red, at last, sleep came.

*

The days that followed were, at least in his mind, the worst days of Brian’s life. The storms at Friary Cove could not have prepared him for the intensity of the storms at sea, and the rocking of Roger’s ship unsettled his stomach. With every toss of the waves, Brian puked up bile, his throat stinging from acid.  
He’d been shoved in a tiny cabin below deck with a single hammock, and there were no portholes for him to look out of; only the dim room and the sounds of the ship being battered by the waves. He missed his cottage and his lamp, and the bed he slept in back home. The room was dark, and water leaked through the roof in constant drips. He’d seen a rat or two, and the creaking of the old wood gave him a headache. The crew had slid him raw vegetables and a sliver of meat, but seasickness had stopped Brian from eating too much.  
The deck of Roger’s ship was constantly slippery, and the pirate crew gave him looks as if they would tear his flesh from his bones with their mouths if left alone with him. Furthermore, Brian’s legs were too long for his body to be contained in the hammock, which meant it tilted to the side when he hung them over an edge. His body was sore from exhaustion, and he figured he had a fever from the change in equilibrium. Each morning, Brian woke up shivering, and every night he sweat so much his shirt was soaked against his skin.  
He stayed in the cabin for most of the day, lying in the hammock, fading in and out of consciousness, vomiting onto the floor whenever the ship rocked.

The third day brought his fate. The pirate captain had heard of Brian’s state, and journeyed below deck to reprimand him.

Brian was laying in the hammock, eyes half-closed, looking up at the ceiling, when he heard the door open.

“May,” Roger growled. “What are you doing? Get on deck! Pull your weight. We had a deal.”

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Brian choked back. “I’m not used to being on a ship of this size.”

“You’re not used to the waves and the storm,” Roger corrected. “But you came here of your own free will. You’ll get used to it! Get out there! Otherwise I’ll have to kill you in front of my crew; they think you’re lazy, you see. And I don’t want to believe them just yet.”  
He tapped his sword against the doorframe, the metal making a scraping sound against wet wood. “God, it stinks in here! Did you shit with the rats? Clean up your mess.”

Brian rolled carefully out of his hammock, placed his feet on the floor gently, treading dangerously close to the pirate captain. He exited the cabin and walked up to the deck of the ship, was immediately hit with a blast of cold air and rain, making his stomach swirl. Roger followed behind him in long strides, accustomed to the rocking of the vessel.  
The wind stung Brian’s eyes and he blinked furiously as he composed himself. He cried out when Roger jabbed him in the rib with the hilt of a dagger.

“May, I cannot let you take your time,” he warned. “I’m not soft. Go!”

Brian stumbled forward, his head spinning as he reached for something to grab on to. The ship rocked back and forth and he fell to his knees, water from the rain seeping through his pants.  
The pirate captain rolled his eyes, pressed the toe of his boot into Brian’s ribs.

“Up! Up, May! You’re a landlubber!! I grow tired of you!”

Brian stood up, balancing carefully, ran to the side of the ship and threw up over the bulwark.

“God almighty,” Roger sighed. “Why on earth did I bring you on board? I’d hate to see you drunk.” The boy was an absolute mess! Definitely not an asset.

“I’ll do better,” Brian pleaded. “I’m sorry, my Lord.”

“Shut up, boy,” the pirate hissed. “Stop speaking. Just get to work! Go and do something instead of laying in that hammock like a comatose man. Scrub the ship! Learn to play cards for all I care.”

Brian nodded, stumbled forwards, and Roger left him on deck, with the wind, at the mercy of the rest of the crew. Brian found five of them smoking on the deck, sitting upon the ropes at the bow.  
They stopped talking when they saw him, looked him up and down.

“So, you’re the new kid,” one growled. “Wanna have some fun?”

“Tell us your name, and your crimes,” another jeered.

“How many women ‘ave you had, son?” Asked another.

Brian swallowed, felt his chest tighten as a wave of anxiety hit him. He would die on this ship, he was certain.

“My name is May,” he tried. “I’m here to learn.”

“Learn?” The pirates laughed. “Learn what? How to play cards? How to drink and laugh and be merry? Or are you planning on learning how to scrub? How to steer a ship?”

Brian felt a tingle in his stomach. All of it, he mused. All of it. Whatever it took.

“What can you teach me?” He asked, stepping forwards.

At this, one pirate stood up, stepped closer.  
“No.” He hissed. “Learn your first lesson.”

Brian swallowed as he felt the tip of a dagger press against his neck, scratch below his jawline.

“From now on, you do everything we say, when we say it, how we tell you to do it. Understand?”

“Yes…” Brian’s throat was dry, and speaking caused the metal to press deeper against his throat.

“Good,” The pirate accepted, removed his dagger. “I’m Netley, and these lads are Macalister, Lee, Williams and Baker.” He motioned to the other four men who sat around, watching. They all nodded, a silent greeting.

Brian bowed his head, gently, in acknowledgment. Netley’s hand found his curls, buried his fingers in them.

“Would ya look at this, lads?!” He laughed. “Just like the hair on the fanny of a wench! Except thicker!”

The pirates laughed then, and Brian grimaced at the grip on his scalp, felt as if his hair would come loose from the tugging.  
Netley’s grip grew tighter every time he squirmed.  
Nobody had ever made a crude comment about Brian’s hair before, and especially not in the vulgar ways the pirates laughed at it.  
He loosened his body, stopped writhing under the grip, and the pirate let go.

“So, May,” Netley jeered. “Taken a shit at sea yet?”

Brian remained silent.

“Well, you’d better,” Netley continued. “Otherwise you’ll get sick. But you have to go over there to the head,” Netley pointed towards the front of the ship, where the bow dropped off and became the beakhead of the ship. Brian inhaled, bit his lip. To get to the head, he would need need to climb over to the bowsprit, which extended off the bow of the ship. He would just as likely fall over the edge and be lost to sea.

“And,” Netley continued, pulling out his dagger and slicing the fabric of Brian’s shirt off at the bottom. “Your first task on board The Cross is to clean the heads for us, with this, and the pail of sea water you’re about to get.”

One of the pirates kicked a pail to Brian, and it rolled to his feet. It was brass, and had a long rope tied around the handle. Clearly the idea was to hold the rope, lower the pail into the ocean and then haul it up again over the side of the ship with the sea water contained in it.  
“Right,” Brian nodded, reaching down to scoop up the pail.

He met Netley’s gaze, then reached for the hem of his shirt. Brian pulled his shirt off over his head, leaving his pale chest exposed to the elements, tied the fabric around his waist, and, grasping the rope, lowered the pail into the sea as the pirates watched him, licking their lips like hungry vultures, waiting for him to slip up so they could prey.


	5. V. John Richard Deacon, RN Cdr.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news, folks! After struggling with the last chapter, I am on a roll with this one! It practically wrote itself & is the longest one yet. Also I've literally been CODING the italicised text up until now and just realised I can click the "rich text" box instead. Wow. It's big dumb idiot hours on main :P
> 
> Finally, what we all want: JOHN DEACON in all his glory. 
> 
> Here’s a disclaimer for later on in this chapter: Before any of you decide it's not realistic that Brian is (still) a virgin in his early 20s, it's England in 1806. They got married after 2 weeks of smiling at each other. People were sexually repressed even in their relationships. Anyways I’m the writer so you’ll have to deal with it. 
> 
> BUT let me know if you are open to reading some (potentially steamy) scenes later on because I am probably amenable to writing them. I haven’t made up my mind yet. We’ll see how we go.
> 
> Also the history of sailors & pirates dictates that it was common that they did actually have sex on board ships, because there was no such thing as "gay" etc. So in terms of the interaction between Brian x Roger in this chapter, Roger is right: it's not that big of a deal that things happened.  
> Anyways this doesn't make sense unless you just read it.
> 
> Before I forget, I'll say the next chapter might be a bit late.  
> I've been away from home for 3 years to study but in Jan I will be moving back home so I have to prioritise that over writing. BUT I will do what I can. If you want to check progress or just have a chat, feel free to message me over on tumblr. My name is the same as on here. ( @alcxhardy )
> 
> HAPPY NEW YEAR! Love & peace to you all. Enjoy chapter 5.
> 
> Blessings xx

John Deacon sat in the office of the naval command headquarters. The base was in Portsmouth, off the South Coast of England’s shores, as it had been for centuries. John stretched and relaxed his fingers as he waited for the fleet commander to speak to him. Rutherford, his name was. He was an older man, with a soft face and weathered hands, but John knew that he prioritised rules over relations.

He exhaled gently, felt anxiety rise in his chest, and focused instead on the office; on the polished wooden cabinets, the large desk with maps of the ocean strewn upon them, the model of a ship that was proudly displayed on the shelf in front of him. The chair in this office was always too big for his body. John was a relatively tall man, and he had status, yet, being in this office always made him feel that his boots were too big, that someone else should be sitting here. Someone who fit in the chair.

“Deacon,” a man called from behind him, and John rose, saluted. It was Rutherford.

“Sir.”

Rutherford sat at the desk opposite John, paused for a moment.

“We received your request to sail for Nelson’s missing daughter.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“John,” Rutherford murmured, his voice dropping. “When did you join the navy?”

“At sixteen, Sir. 1798.”

“And you’ve been here a while?”

“Almost eight years, Sir.”

The man nodded, contemplated. John noticed the white hairs above his ears.

“We know that Nelson trained you, gave you your job. And it’s evident to us that you are a prodigy out here, at sea. Indeed, the fact that you’re a Naval Commander at such a young age is testament to your aptitude. You’re one of the best: one of _our_ best, and there’s a future for you in the Royal Navy for life. Why, perhaps even you could be an Admiral by the time you’re forty-five. We’ve never seen a man of your calibre climb ranks so quickly, or deservedly. But John, this situation is not within your control. Think of your duties here, in England.”

John’s stomach twisted into a knot.  
“You’re not going to let me sail?”

“No. We think your expertise is more valuable on a different naval operation.”

“Sir, with all due respect,” John frowned, “I don’t understand. Are you sending an operation to sail for Nelson’s daughter?”

“We’re sending Hutton,” the man replied. “He’s taking a smaller vessel and a reduced crew in order to go undetected as a naval officer. We feel if he runs into trouble, we shouldn’t need to be as concerned if we had sent an entire fleet. If he finds her, that is.”

“You’re sending him on a suicide mission!” John growled. “What about pirates? That cursed bounty hunter, too!”  
He paused then. “You don’t think the operation is worth it, do you?”

Rutherford sighed. “John. Nelson served us for many years, and we truly value his service. But this isn’t him who’s been taken. It’s his daughter. She’s not our concern. We don’t even know if she has been kidnapped. To send out a fleet on a whim, on a hunch, well: it’s dangerous and irresponsible on behalf of the Royal Navy.”

John gazed at the ground, at his boots.

“I’m sorry, Deacon,” the officer stated. “Return home. We will have another operation for you soon. Get some rest, son.”

“When does Hutton sail out?” John prompted.

“Tomorrow, at dawn. I know you two are warm acquaintances. Have a drink with him before then, perhaps. You may not see him for a while.”

John nodded, thanked Rutherford for his time. He saluted, and left the office, joined the scatter of people on the English street.

It was mid-morning, and the sky was pale. It had rained last night, which left the street slippery. John walked through it, found a coffee-house in a quiet side street, and paid for a cup of tea.  
He sat at the table, alone, stirred the green leaves in the boiling water, and brought the cup to his lips, blew gently.

Nelson’s letter weighed heavily on his heart. Ordinarily, it shouldn’t matter, but the Admiral was like an uncle to him.  
John’s parents had both passed away when he was young, and Nelson had taken him under his wing. His father had built ships, which was how they’d met, and the Admiral had been to a great many of their family dinners, before John’s parents had passed. They’d died in an accident, but John didn’t talk about it.

Since retiring, Nelson had told John he was welcome to visit the Cove any time, and John always thanked him, and promised to come next month, or when things weren’t busy; but they always were, and so, he’d never been down to Friary Cove. Never walked along the beach barefoot. Never met (Y/N) or seen Nelson’s garden.

Once, a few years ago, the Admiral had sent John a letter, with a drawing of (Y/N) attached.  
“This is a drawing of my daughter,” the letter had read. “She is beautiful, even more so in person. You would like her. You must visit soon and meet her. She is in need of a friend.”

John had pinned the drawing to his wall, as an ikon, almost. (Y/N) watched over him, when he was at his desk, working. And nothing bad had ever come to him. But now, it was she that was lost.  
John thought of his parents; they would be comforted, he knew, to find that Nelson had taken care of him when they died, mentored him almost as a son, ensured that he was well-off. Now it was his turn to return the favour. Nelson needed his daughter back, and he was going to be the one who got her.  
Whatever it took.  
John gulped the tea down, inspected the shine of the china cup.

He too, was in need of a friend.

____*_ _ _ _

Brian groaned as his eyes opened, blinked against the pitch black of the cabin. His body was aching, shoulders tight and hands strained. Another day of chores, never-ending chores.  
He’d done everything the pirates had told him to, as a method of keeping the peace, from cleaning the heads to washing their clothes, fetching them liquor, chopping up carrots for soup, scrubbing the deck.  
With each task, they’d asked him vague personal questions:

“Do you have an education?”, “how many pairs of boots do you own back home?”, “how much money does a fisherman earn on a good day?”, “can you read?”, “what was the name of the first girl you kissed?”, “what happened the first time you ever got drunk?” and so on and so forth.

Brian wasn’t sure why they asked, or what the purpose of answering them was, and yet, he felt himself telling them. Albeit, his answers were simple, in case they wanted to know to hold it over him, but he couldn’t find the harm in letting them in.

“Are they really your names?” Brian had asked Netley.

“What, do you want to know our names at sea?” Netley had laughed. “Why, you sail with The Golden Death himself and you want to know about _our_ names?”

Brian had shrugged. “I’m surprised you didn’t introduce yourselves with your aliases.”

“We are people, too, you know,” Netley had offered. “Not just fables with ominous names. It wouldn’t help us to work as a crew if we constantly had to refer to each other by the names we’ve adopted. They’re really only to intimidate land-faring folk. You’ve read about pirates and you think they’re confined to being men of hard crimes, cursed to a life at sea to atone for their sins with guilt and grief. Aye, it’s true, some of it. Perhaps we’re drunkards and thieves, but the waters bring freedom.”

“Freedom to kill, and steal?” Brian challenged.

“Yes, lad!” Netley clapped him on the back. “Freedom to kill and steal, when required. But freedom to not rely on others for a working wage, freedom to learn the ways of the sea and the storms, freedom to drink and laugh and fight and fuck and die the way we want!”

Brian nodded, biting his tongue. Netley’s point was logical. After all, hadn’t _he_ joined Taylor’s crew for some freedom? Freedom to see the world and learn to haul his weight as a man, freedom to decide that his choice to follow (Y/N) into the ocean’s grasp was his own?

“Why did you come on board, son?” Netley smirked. “Not just to get a pirate alias, I hope?”

“There’s a girl,” Brian murmured, blinked as he realised he’d revealed his motives. He prepared to brush it off as nothing, but before he could continue, Netley had constructed his own narrative.

“A girl? A lass you want to prove yourself to by spending time at sea? Aye, lad! Tell about her! Is she pretty?”

“Yes.”

“Is she _soft?”_

Brian nodded, remembered the creases at (Y/N)’s eyes as she laughed, how she walked along the shore with no shoes, running into the waves to get her feet wet, the way she’d leaned into his kiss last year, and how the entire world melted away when she was near him.

“Ah,” Netley dug a finger into Brian’s ribs, caught him off guard. “Tell us, then! How many times have you had her? Do you climb through her window when her husband’s away and make her wish she hadn’t married him?”

Brian smiled, “no, it’s not like that. She’s not married.”

Netley smirked. “You sneaky bastard, May, you’re ruining her for the man who will marry her.”

Brian had turned away, busied himself with scrubbing.

“No, lad!” Netley had hollered. “Never?! Alright, then, forget her! Tell about the other women you’ve ravished.”

Brian scrubbed until his hands ached. Netley just laughed.

Brian cursed silently. It didn’t matter, but he’d never really considered his position to be a big deal. He couldn’t deny that he’d wanted the opportunity, sometimes desperately, but Friary Cove was a small town, with a scarce population and little recreational activities on offer. Most of the men had sons, who left for London or worked on the boats, rather than daughters. Brian had spent his years supporting his father with fishing, and besides, there was nothing his books couldn’t teach him. The stars were more thrilling than flirting. They were much less likely to deny your admiration.

Besides, if any woman was worth it, Brian had hoped that he’d fall in love the right way: court her slowly, ask her father for her hand in marriage, and make a living to the extent where he could buy a modest house for them to live in.  
Not just take her in a blaze of lust and leave.  
Perhaps that was the way of pirates.  
But he was firm in his decision.

“So, you’ve never been with anyone,” Netley confirmed. “You should learn before we dock, so when you do get the opportunity to fuck a woman, you’re not inexperienced.”

Brian blinked. “I… it doesn’t make any difference to me. Besides, there are no women on board.”

“Taylor looks a bit like a woman, you know,” Netley murmured. “If you needed some help, he’d probably oblige.”

Brian frowned. “But… he… I…”

Netley mocked him then, mimicking his stutter.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you know you’re at sea? Conventions don’t count for anything out here. Sure, Taylor’s into women, and so are you, but no doubt he’s done it before. Anything’s a currency on the waters. Why don’t you tell him you want to learn a thing or two. Just pretend he’s a pretty blonde wench when his lips are on you. He speaks softly, has long hair; it can’t be too hard to visualise. I’ve heard him moaning through the walls of his cabin a few times. Sounds just like a bitch, if you ask me.”

Brian swallowed. “No thanks,” he choked out. “It’s not an issue for me.”

Netley scoffed. “Alright, prude. You’re not religious are you?”

“No,” Brian answered quickly. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

The pirate spun around again and faced him. “May, you came on board this ship to learn things. Perhaps you should start by learning who you are and what you believe in.”

Brian nodded, and Netley left him alone.

*

Brian’s seasickness had subsided, for now, and he’d finished the tasks the pirates had assigned once dusk had fallen. He was out on the deck, and before retiring, had found a moment alone to gaze up and see the stars.

Out in the open, with no view of the horizon, the sky seemed so full, so tangible, made Brian feel like he could reach upwards and brush his fingers against the stars, hold them in his palm. The books he kept back home told him that he could see Aries, Ophiuchus; even Sirius, the star that burned the brightest against the tenebrous atmosphere. He sat, craned his neck upwards, watched them for what felt like hours, until his eyes grew weary, the breeze tugging at his shirt, like the caress of a new and gentle lover.

*

It was 3am when John Deacon did something he never would have considered doing before now.  
His heart pounded and his hands shook as he made his way to the Naval Dock, under the cover of darkness so as to avoid recognition. The night was cold, and he could see the perspiration from his breath like smoke in front of him.  
The moon was low in the sky, and he travelled light, a bag thrown over his shoulder. He was dressed in his naval uniform, but his hair was untied and hung loose below his shoulders, blowing gently as he walked silently through the English streets. On his belt hung a sheathed dagger and a small pistol, tucked tightly against his hip.

He’d packed some spare socks, the journal he kept beside his bed to write down his thoughts in and his bible.  
John made his way through the dockyard, past the larger ships in the fleet.  
It was difficult to see with the dim light, but his intuition told him that Hutton would take his own ship for the operation. He was a dependable man.

John found the ship after twenty minutes.

_HMS Romeo._

It was small, unassuming, yet well-equipped for a journey on the seas with a minimal crew. Hutton would probably only be deployed with 100 men, just enough to sail comfortably, but not enough, John knew, if the situation turned dire.  
He walked around the hull, searching for the best place to climb aboard.  
To his surprise, there was a cargo net that had been draped over the side of the hull, and John was able to reach it by jumping with his arms extended upwards.  
His hands burned as the rope twisted against the soft flesh of his palms, and he grunted, but nonetheless, his grip was sturdy.  
John looped a boot into the net, hauled himself up, over the forecastle, and stood firmly on the deck of the ship.  
He delved down, into the cabins, and slid under one of the hammocks, rested on his back on the hard floor.  
It was pitch-black, and he could hear only his breath and his heartbeat, and the rustle of fabric against wood as he adjusted his position, pressed himself against the wall, closed his eyes. He knew he would be waiting a while, but nobody ever checked underneath the lowest hammocks. They never considered that anyone or anything could be there, save for rats.  
John would be safe here, inconspicuous. At least until he needed to be.

By the time the Navy found out that John had stowed away on Hutton’s ship, he’d be out at sea, beyond their grasp or control.

He imagined the letter of deployment for his next operation being taken to his house, returning unopened, the naval officers wondering where he was or what he was doing.  
Would they care, he wondered, or would they go on without him?  
They could always find someone else, he mused.

Someone with bigger boots.

*

“May,” Netley announced. “Taylor wants to see you in his cabin.”

Brian swallowed. He ran his fingers through his hair, walked through the halls of the ship until he reached the pirate’s door, knocked carefully.

“Enter!”

Brian opened the door, left it ajar behind him, saw Roger sitting at his desk.  
The pirate’s cabin was extraordinarily elaborate; Brian never could have imagined that a man such as Taylor would have such a neat space.

His desk was on the left hand side of the cabin, next to large arched windows, double-sunburst, through which there was a view of the ocean, in all her glorious blue. Atop it was a map of the world, and a glass jug - obviously stolen, Brian thought - of whiskey. On the far right of the cabin was Roger’s bed, but Brian felt like his gaze was intrusive when he looked at it, saw that it was neatly made. He dragged his eyes away, quickly.  
Behind Roger, there was a shelving unit, and books lined it in such disarray that they were overflowing. The rest of the room was stacked with glass bottles full of liquor, save for a few upholstered chairs with red fabric. A chandelier hung in the centre of the room, the candles in it bulbous from the wax that had melted and engulfed them, but they were not lit.

Roger sat at the desk, watching as Brian took in his living arrangements. He wore pale trousers, tucked into dark boots, had his shirt unbuttoned all the way, golden hair falling loose against his suntanned flesh. A glass of whiskey was in his hand, and Brian bowed his head gently when his gaze met Roger’s.

“First week on board, May. How was it?” Roger purred, gulping down the liquor. “First three days: redundant due to your blubbering incompetence. But the rest?”

“Fine,” Brian lied.

“How sore are you?”

“I can handle it,” Brian reassured him. “I’m working hard.”

“I believe you,” Roger confirmed. “If you weren’t, I’d know about it.”

“Have… have _you_ had a good week?”

Roger laughed at this, deep laughter from his core. “Why do you care how my week has been? It’s all the same to me. Every day, the same sky, the same sea. The same ship.”

Brian stared at his hands, bit his lip.

“How are you finding the crew?” Roger murmured. “Is there anyone I should toss overboard? Be honest.”

Brian shook his head. “No. They’re, I mean, they’re okay I suppose. We’re getting used to each other.”

“Don’t let them bully you, May!” Roger rasped. “Fight back, won’t you! If you need to! Here,” he opened the drawer, pulled out a sheathed dagger with an ivory handle.  
“I wouldn’t do this usually, but we won’t dock for a while, and you should learn to protect yourself, whether by will or by desperation.”

He held out the blade, and Brian took it, grasping the handle. His fingers brushed Roger’s as he took the dagger. Brian pulled away quickly and tucked the scabbard into his pants.

“Anything else?” Roger asked, downing the rest of his drink.

Brian was silent for a moment, then he frowned as curiosity gnawed at him.

“Do… do you… I mean…”

“Oh for God’s sake, spit it out,” Roger snarled, tapping the heel of his boot against the floor.

“Do you do… sexual favours?” Brian choked.

Roger’s foot stopped then, his whole body froze, blinked a few times as he locked eyes with Brian.

“Are you… asking me for one, May? You really are a loose cannon! It’s been one week!  
What do you want? A wank?” Roger licked his lips. “Blowjob?” His gaze raked down Brian’s body and hovered on his crotch.

Brian was silent. He felt his ears burn with embarrassment, bit his tongue, wished he’d never asked.  
Roger’s eyes widened, and Brian saw surprise flash in them. “Surely not..?! Not -”

Brian felt his cheeks flush red, pulled his gaze away from Roger. “No, I… your crew, they… they told me you were amenable and I just… well…”

“You wanted to know if it was true?” Roger laughed. “No.” He swallowed. “I haven’t needed to save my own life for a long time.”

Brian nodded. “Right. Sorry. Of course not. You wouldn’t...”

Roger raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be too hasty to judge or disregard the actions of those whose stories you don’t know. A man has to do whatever it takes, on the seas, May. You would too, if you were about to die and you were offered a way out. Mind you,” he continued, “sometimes I have favours done for _me.”_

“And you don’t mind that it’s… that it’s men?” Brian frowned.

Roger shrugged. “A mouth is a mouth. A hand is a hand. How much is your life worth to you?”

“Why did you grow your hair so long?” Brian blurted out.

“What is this? Honesty hour?” Roger snapped. “When was the last time you touched yourself, May? Was it on board my ship? Did you enjoy it or did you feel shame?”

Brian shook his head. “Your hair, it’s just… it’s so long it’s like a woman. That’s what they said. They said it’d be easy to pretend you were a woman.”

“I told myself I’d never cut it,” Roger yelled. “Not until I got off these cursed waters. For good. Satisfied with that answer, are you? Or are you going to ask me another stupid question?”

“No,” Brian muttered. “That’s all I wanted to know.”

The captain stared at him then, fire burning behind blue irises. Brian immediately knew he was out of line.

“I’ll tell you what _I_ want to know, May.” Roger rose, walked towards him. “How well you’re doing on this ship every day. I want to know if you’re a worthy member of this crew. Whether you’ve scrubbed the deck until your skin peels off your fingers and your hands start to bleed from the friction. Whether you ate more than you needed to survive. If you have a headache or a sore knee or a bruise on your arse and who gave it to you.

‘I want to know what time you wake up and how long it takes you to shit and when you win coins at poker. I want to know when you laugh out of line, when you talk when you shouldn’t be talking, when you stop working for a few seconds to gaze at the sea and think about how things were better for you back home. And I want to know when you piss over the side of the ship and when you jerk off and when you fall asleep.

 _You_ don’t _want_ to know anything. You don’t _need_ to know anything about me. I’m the captain of this ship, and you’re going to die on it by my hand if you’re not more careful.”

Brian deflated, clasped his hands together behind his back.

“Get out,” Roger growled.

Brian backed away, slowly.

“Fuck off!” Roger yelled, tossed the empty glass that was resting on the edge of his desk. Brian ran, quickly slipping out of the door and hurrying back up to the deck. The glass smashed against the doorframe, left shards on the floor of Roger’s cabin. He kicked his desk, slammed the door shut behind Brian, was left alone with the windows.


	6. VI. Freddie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6 woohoo!  
> Freddie-central!
> 
> Just wanted to say a massive thanks to those of you who have left me comments & sent me kudos on this fic so far. Life hasn't been the greatest recently, nor has the motivation to write been the best, so it's really made a difference when feeling disheartened about my work to go back and read your kind words.
> 
> I think from now on I'll need to write about 2-3 chapters and upload them together, because I feel like I'm trying to catch up with my own time pressures. But we'll see.
> 
> Hope you all had a great New Year.
> 
> All my love xx

(Y/N) squinted as the glare caught her eyes. The sun was rising above the horizon, catching her gaze as she looked out over the bow of The Mercury, the ocean appearing still, despite the ship sailing calmly forwards. 

 

She’d spent a week away from her father, from Friary Cove, with complete strangers in a foreign place. She was an alien here, an immigrant. Her feet longed for the land; even the mud, the sand of the beach. 

 

With every day that passed, (Y/N) felt anxiousness bubble up in her stomach, climb to her chest. More often than not, she felt tears well up in her eyes and race down her cheeks. Sometimes while she was eating, or laying on her bed, they came freely, and she didn’t stop them nor wipe them with her hands.

Sometimes Freddie saw her crying, but he never said anything, only turned away, as if he was trying not to notice. 

He wasn't cruel, and that, (Y/N) was glad of. But his attitude towards her was dismissive, as though she was a novelty, and not an actual person.

He made little conversation, and didn’t ask her anything.

 

Courage found (Y/N) on the sixth day, and she snuck through the ship until she came to Freddie’s door, knocked against the wood.

 

He opened it, and his eyes widened when he saw her standing in front of him, still dressed in the outfit he’d chosen for her to wear, but with knotted hair and a sombre expression. 

 

“Come in,” he whispered, allowed her inside his cabin. It was tremendously ornate, with red curtains hanging on the windows and decorative furniture. Rugs lined the wooden floor, and he had a large desk in the centre of the room. 

 

(Y/N) elected to sit on a chair beside his bed, and Freddie perched across from her. 

 

Both parties were silent for a while, and then she spoke.

 

“I miss home.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“You’re not sorry. I don’t understand.” (Y/N) felt her throat burn. Anger tugged at her, like the sparks of a fire, ready to boil up and burn him. “If you were sorry you’d let me go.”

 

“I can’t do that, dear.”

 

“This ship is so… so foreign. I don’t belong here -” her hands clenched into balls “- I don’t understand. You’ve taken me from my home, my family. I expected by now that you’d hurt me, kill me, touch me, something, anything, but…”

 

“You don’t have to understand,” Freddie stated, his tone cold. 

 

(Y/N) blinked, chewed on the inside of her cheek. “When will you find Innswood?”

 

“My aim is not to find him,” Freddie clarified. “I am wise enough to know I should not be intending to actively seek him out.”

 

“What?”

 

“Nobody  _ finds  _ Innswood.” Freddie explained. “If he wants you, he’ll find  _ you. _ But things take time. I plan on handing you over, dear, not giving you over. There is still a bargain to be made.”

 

The details of Freddie’s words hit (Y/N) then, properly, in such a way that she felt her body buckle, as if a weight had been pressed onto her back. Freddie wasn’t sailing to find Innswood. She was a prisoner on board The Mercury until they crossed paths. That could be years. After all, the ocean was vast, inhabited by many seafarers. If Freddie had never met him, he could be anyone.

 

“There’s a problem with your plan,” she tried, stammered.

 

“Oh?”

 

“What if you run into somebody else, who wants me more?”

 

“How are they to know that  _ I  _ have  _ you  _ specifically on board my ship?” Freddie countered.

 

(Y/N) grimaced. He was right. Unless anyone saw her, from a close distance, there would be no telling that she was Nelson’s missing daughter. Especially since Freddie had women as crew members.

 

“I want to make a deal with you,” she demanded.

 

Freddie raised his eyebrows. 

 

“You don’t speak to me much. I don’t know why but I don’t like it. From now until when you hand me to Innswood, I want to get to know you and your crew. I won’t be your prisoner upon this ship. I deserve to be your equal.”

 

Freddie laughed, clapped his hands together. “You’re so feisty, darling, I love it! But you  _ can’t  _ give me orders. Whether or not you have status at home, that makes no difference to me on the seas. This is my ship. That’s the only status I care for.”

 

“Answer me then.” (Y/N) leaned closer. “Why won’t you talk to me? What are you afraid of? I’m  _ on _ your ship. You captured me. Congratulations! You’re stronger than me. I can’t physically stop you from giving me to Innswood. But I would damn well like to not feel like I’m a fly on the wall until you find him. If I’m going to live here for however long it takes, albeit as a prisoner, I ought to feel like I can have some autonomy. Let me join your crew, learn to work on your ship. I’ll pull my weight.”

 

Freddie frowned, pursed his lips. The truth was, he didn’t actually  _ want _ to hand (Y/N) over. He just wanted to live, be free from threat on the seas. But if he accepted, and got too close to her, it would be harder to go through with it, and that was a factor he couldn’t risk.

 

“I’ll think about it,” he murmured.

 

(Y/N)’s heart pounded. “Fine. Think about it.” She was seething, now, but inhaled and composed herself. “Can I have some different clothes please?”

 

“You don’t like the dress I chose for you?” Freddie whined.

 

“I like it… but if it’s all the same to you, I’d really like to know what it’s like to wear some pants,” (Y/N) explained. “They seem much more comfortable. And I want some boots.”

 

Freddie smiled, complied. He moved towards his bed, knelt down and pulled a trunk from underneath it. With precision, he opened the trunk carefully, gestured for (Y/N) to come to it.

 

“Take whatever you’d like,” he offered.

 

(Y/N) hesitated, but her feet found the floor and soon she was on her knees, in front of the trunk. Freddie sat cross-legged on his bed, watched as she dug through the chest, rummaging for anything she could salvage. 

The trunk was full of jewellery, elaborate laced bodices, but towards the bottom she found a pair of small trousers that looked like they would fit her. (Y/N) pulled them out, held them in front of her. 

 

“Oooh, they’re a nice colour!” Freddie cheered.

 

(Y/N) nodded, put them to the side. Her hands found a white shirt, with a pale blue pinstripe running down it. The collar was embroidered with a floral pattern, and she clutched it to her chest. 

 

“I think this’ll do,” she smiled.

 

“Let’s find you some shoes, dear,” Freddie offered, motioning to the trunk. (Y/N) dug deeper, inspected the shoes she found buried at the bottom. There were a few pairs, but none of them looked as if they’d fit her. 

She pulled out all the clothes, tossed them aside, until the trunk was empty.

 

“Give me a pair of yours,” (Y/N) challenged.

 

“My boots won’t fit you!” Freddie laughed. “Go and ask a woman on my crew if she can spare some. Brianna Billingley might be your best bet! She’s the one with blue eyes and the dark hair. If not, we’ll just have to steal you some wherever we dock next.”

 

(Y/N) scooped up the clothes, threw them back in the trunk, closed the lid. “Then I’ll take these two. Just the shirt and the pants.”

 

Freddie nodded. “Take this, too,” he jumped off his bed, walked over to a drawer, and pulled out a belt. “It might help to keep your pants up.”

 

“They won’t stay up?” (Y/N) smiled, bit her tongue.  

 

“Not always.” Freddie handed her the belt, their fingers brushing gently as she took it.

“When you’re dressed, you should come back here and show me what you look like!”

 

“I’ll bring the dress back,” (Y/N) promised.

 

“Keep it,” Freddie exhaled. “It was a gift. Think of it as a peace offering.”

 

(Y/N) chewed on the inside of her cheek, nodded. She went to leave, but a hand on her shoulder stopped her. Turning back to face Freddie, she saw his lip quiver.

 

“I will do my best to be more accommodating of you,” he uttered. “But it won’t change my mind. When the time comes, you  _ will _ leave my ship. Whether you go freely or I have to drag you. Understand?”

 

(Y/N) nodded. “Alright, Freddie.” 

 

He flinched at this, as though it was unusual for him to hear his own name repeated back to him. (Y/N) noticed the change in his expression. At least this way, she would have the time and the opportunity to get to know him, find out what made him tick, what made him laugh, what it took to hurt his heart. If need be, (Y/N) was determined to do anything to get off the ship. She just had to work out what it would take, what she could get away with.

 

(Y/N) left Freddie’s cabin, then, walked wearily back to her own. She was eager to try on the pants, see whether they were more comfortable. Her father sat around in his trousers often, and they appeared to bring much better mobility.

 

Once she was safely behind her door, she pulled the fabric of the dress over her head, slid out of it and left it folded on the bed.

 

The shirt was easiest to put on; the sleeves were too long, but (Y/N) rolled them up, undid the top three buttons so her chest was slightly exposed. Back home, her father would insist that nothing below her neck was to be visible, as was customary for women. Yet, despite the ship being an oppressor, (Y/N) found her freedom in it through the release of the buttons. Humming to herself, she undid one more, allowed the top of her cleavage to be seen. (Y/N) sat on the bed, placed a foot through one of the legs of the pants. Her foot slid through and came out the bottom hole, and she repeated the process with the other leg. 

Standing up, she pulled the top of the pants upwards, over her thighs, tugged on them until the band was around her waist. Freddie was right; she would need the belt. The pants were a bit loose, but fitted enough to pull tight in all the right areas. She looped the belt through the top loops, fiddled with the buckle. She’d seen these before and knew how to use them; her father wore quite a few, even Brian sometimes had one tied around his waist when he sailed out to fish. 

 

She pulled it tight, slid the metal through the leather and slotted the tag under the loop of the pants. Fantastic! (Y/N) spun around, saw her legs move under her. With a grin, she kicked one leg up, felt the fabric stretch to accommodate her movements. What a strange sensation! These pants would take some time getting used to; especially being able to see both legs at once. (Y/N) felt her stomach flutter; she hoped, very much, that once she returned home, she would be able to take them with her and wear them whenever she pleased. 

 

*

 

Freddie sat at his desk when (Y/N) left the room. He pulled out a journal he’d been keeping in his drawer, found the quill that was submerged in an ink pot. 

 

_ “(Y/N) Nelson,” _ he scribbled.  _ “Feisty character. Week one has been a challenge. Unlike most captives, I did not have the heart to keep her on board solely as a prisoner. Gave her her own cabin. She may prove difficult to keep an eye on. Best option seems to let her think she’s in control. She reminds me of Kashmira, unfortunately. Will be hard not to grow attached to her. Will write a report if anything goes awry.” _

 

Freddie poured a drink of whiskey, downed it, chewing his bottom lip. His plans never went well. He was always hasty making decisions, and despite thinking them through, life always found a way of keeping him in line. He had told (Y/N) that he’d speak to her now; he couldn’t very well renege on the deal. 

 

*

 

(Y/N) returned to Freddie’s cabin when she was dressed, and had successfully obtained a pair of boots from the woman he had recommended she speak to. 

 

Brianna Billingley had looked (Y/N) up and down upon seeing her presence, raised an eyebrow, then made gentle conversation for a while as (Y/N) chose some boots. They were black, shiny leather, with small block heels and buckles on the side. The boots were uncomfortable at first, wonky, but they fit. (Y/N) spent some time pacing up and down the cabin corridor, placing one foot in front of the other slowly, learning to walk again. 

 

“Ah!” Freddie’s eyes shone under the candlelight. “Look at you!”

 

(Y/N) spun around. Freddie laughed. “Like a true buccaneer, my darling. And those boots! Did you get them from Brianna?”

 

“Yes,” (Y/N) murmured. “She’s nice. She said she’d do my hair tomorrow.”

 

“That’s good!” Freddie murmured. “Perhaps you two will become great friends. Well, you look a dream. Very sexy.”

 

(Y/N) felt shivers rise on her back as Freddie spoke.  _ Sexy.  _ It was not a word that she had ever really heard, especially not addressed to her. Did the man want her, after-all?

For now, she hoped not. 

 

“So, when can I have a sword?”

 

Freddie dragged his gaze from her face, tried not to laugh. 

 

“I can’t have a sword?” (Y/N) tapped her foot. “Why not?”

 

“What do you want one for? So you can slice my throat open in the night?” Freddie countered. “I surely wouldn’t trust you with a weapon, yet.”

 

“Perhaps,” (Y/N) teased. “Mainly I want one because they look wonderful, and I’d like to learn to use one.”

 

Freddie blinked. “You’re not wrong, but…hmm, we don’t know each other that well yet.”

 

“Teach me to use one,” (Y/N) piped. “Let me know how to defend myself. When you give me to Innswood, I’ll slice him open. He won’t expect that.”

 

“Dear, you have so many ideas rattling around in that brain of yours. Unfortunately, you won’t be able to do that. He would know if you were armed. Besides, you’re extremely inexperienced. You’d die on your own blade.”

 

“I’d rather die on my own blade than live by his hand,” (Y/N) snapped. “Even yours.”

 

Freddie stepped closer. His eyes burned, and (Y/N) prepared herself for the blow. But it never came.

 

“You treat your life as if it’s worth nothing,” he murmured. “You’re wrong.” 

 

“ _ Is it _ worth anything?” (Y/N) growled. “You’re the one who’s decided what to do with it.” 

 

She spun around, let anger carry her onto the deck. Freddie followed behind. (Y/N) felt hot tears well up in her eyes, streak down her cheeks. She wiped them furiously, the hairs on her arms standing up. Her stomach twisted itself into a knot, and she felt like she was drowning as well as on fire. 

She reached the deck quickly, and ran to the edge of it, stared at the ocean below. It was dark, ominous, ready to swallow her up. Fear clutched her body, and her breath came out in hoarse breaths. Shivers ran down her spine.

 

Freddie ran out onto the deck. “(Y/N)!” he called. “What are you doing?”

 

(Y/N) met his eyes, felt her tears reach her neck. She inhaled, held her breath, turned towards the horizon, and jumped off the ship. 

The falling was the worst part; everything stood still - her eyes focused on the horizon and she felt her stomach shift upwards, almost as if it was in her throat. Halfway down, she believed she would die.

 

(Y/N)’s body hit the water, and icy turbulence engulfed her frame. For a few moments, everything was peaceful, tiny bubbles climbing to the ocean’s surface in front of her. Then, panic gripped her as she floated to the surface, came up choking, cold and shaking, hands splashing around. She swallowed a mouthful of water and felt the burn of salt flood her throat. There was nothing to grab onto, only the bobbing of the ocean that was carrying her body away from the ship. 

(Y/N)’s heart pounded and her breath was strained; she gulped for air and spat saltwater out of her mouth. She’d never been in water this deep before; at most, she got her feet wet on The Cove, perhaps indulged by walking into the waves until her knees were submerged. 

 

She heard another splash close to her and her vision blurred as panic took her, felt herself sinking. The world faded out, grey spots appearing at the sides of her vision, and then, the world went silent, save for the ringing in her ears. The cold had crept into her entire body, and her attempts to stay afloat only made her dunk backwards, water pooling into her mouth.

 

(Y/N)’s eyes closed as water went up her nose, and before she could cry out, there was only darkness.

 

Freddie coughed as he came up from the dark water, saw (Y/N)’s body, her eyes closed. 

“Fuck!” he cried out. The water was freezing! He’d jumped feet-first. He flicked his hair away from his face and took off towards her, using his arms to paddle quickly. He had only a few more seconds before she would drown. 

There was nothing to kick off; his body struggled against the current, but each stroke of his arms brought him closer to (Y/N). 

Eventually he was able to reach out and grab (Y/N) by the arm, clawing for her frantically. 

His grip on her arm was tight enough to bruise, but he tugged her swiftly and her body slid closer to him. She was lighter than him, and her head rolled loosely as he pulled her to his chest, held her upright.

 

Freddie yelled, called out to his crew by name. 

He shook (Y/N) by the shoulders, but there was no response. He continued to yell, screaming their names wildly despite struggling with the force of the water pressing around his body. Finally, his crew called back to him.

 

“The net!” Freddie screamed. “Drop the fucking net!”

 

He wrapped an arm around (Y/N)’s back, used his free hand to slap her face. At once, her eyes snapped open and her whole body tensed. Her voice came out in a strangled cry, hands smashing against the water frantically. Freddie choked on the water as she splashed it up around their faces, panic painted on her face.

 

Freddie held her tightly. “I’ve got you, darling, I’ve got you,” he reassured, locking eyes with her.

(Y/N) coughed, puked up sea water onto his chest, retched as her neck craned forwards. Freddie held her, still, seemed unaffected by the mess, only brushed her hair away from her face, swam gently backwards towards the hull of The Mercury clutching her in his arms, let the waves support both of their bodyweight.

 

The crew had lowered a cargo net and Freddie grasped (Y/N) by the waist, hauled her upwards. Her foot pressed against his thigh, used his body as a support as her hands found the rope, fingers wrapped weakly around the fibres.

 

Freddie scrambled for the net, dug his fingers into the rope, swinging back and forth so he could lift his leg up and fit a boot through the hole. He pressed a hand against (Y/N)’s back, helped the woman climb gently, water dripping from her clothes back into the ocean. 

 

(Y/N) didn’t feel her body moving higher, didn’t register the net against her palms, or her breath, or the burning sensation of pain that clutched her torso from hitting the water too hard.

She saw only Freddie’s body, felt him hold her against him as she crawled onto the deck, water seeping out from the fabric of their clothes and pooling around their bodies. 

 

“I’ll keep an eye on her, tonight,” Freddie told his crew, “so she doesn’t do anything else.”

 

He scooped the woman up into his arms as if she was his bride, carried her to his cabin, leaving a trail of water in their wake. 

 

Freddie helped (Y/N) down, sat her on a chair, pulled a blanket off his bed and wrapped it around her shoulders, rubbed firmly to dry her.

 

Her eyes were weary as he knelt in front of her, took her hand in his own.

 

“My darling,” he murmured. “Please.  _ Please _ do not do that again.” His thumb brushed over her hand, danced tenderly against her flesh.

 

“Promise me,” Freddie prompted. “Promise me you won’t do anything else reckless!”

 

(Y/N) nodded, saw her hands shaking in front of her. She was a fool. What did she expect would happen, truly? That she could swim back home? Embarrassment bore down on her, and tears welled at her eyes. Freddie had jumped in after her to save her life; she ought to be grateful. He could’ve left her to drown in the abyss, wash up on a foreign shore as a decayed corpse, or be lost underwater, food for the fish, forgotten.

 

She pulled the blanket around her shoulders, shivered against the waterlogged clothes. 

 

“You need to take your clothes off,” Freddie stated, his voice calm.

 

(Y/N) met his eyes, felt her body tingle with fear. “Why?”

 

“Because if you don’t, you will catch a cold. Or worse, a fever. You need to get out of them so your body can re-regulate its temperature,” he explained, used his hands as he talked.

 

“What about you?” (Y/N) snapped. 

 

“Yes!” Freddie exclaimed. “I also need to take my clothes off, as soon as possible, if it’s alright with you! I, too, would prefer not to get sick! But I need to make sure you’re alright first.”

 

“So now you care about me?” (Y/N) whispered.

 

“Stop being difficult, for fuck’s sake!” Freddie growled. “I’m trying to help you and you’re being a right bitch! We can debate tomorrow but I don’t want you to die on my ship.”

 

(Y/N) flinched at his tone. Her face snapped towards him, and she met his eyes: big, deep orbs of amber. There was such light in them. 

 

“I’ll go over here,” (Y/N) swallowed, pointing to the space behind his bed. “And you go over there.” 

 

Freddie nodded. “Yes. We can rummage my other trunks once we’re dry. Deal?”

 

(Y/N) smiled in agreement, complied. She took the blanket with her, held it around her shoulders like a cape, and hid behind the furniture as Freddie walked to the bed to grasp his own blanket, then moved to the opposite end of the cabin. He turned to face the wall, and she exhaled, pulled off her clothes and threw them to the floor. They squelched as they hit the ground, a messy pile of salt. 

The air in Freddie’s cabin made (Y/N)’s skin swell with goosebumps, and shivers ran down her spine. She wrapped the blanket around herself, rubbed the water off her skin. 

 

Freddie kicked his wet clothes to the side, wrapped himself in the blanket, rummaged around behind his desk. He opened a trunk, pulled out shirts and trousers, and two pairs of socks, held them out for (Y/N) to take.

She shuffled forwards, almost cautiously, felt the cotton of the socks and the dry fabric of the clothes as he handed them to her.

 

“Would you like me to hold up the blanket so you can get dressed behind it?” Freddie offered.

 

(Y/N) nodded, and at once he pulled the fabric off his own shoulders and raised it above his head. (Y/N) saw only a flash of his bare flesh; then she was shielded by the blanket. 

She dressed quickly, sliding into the pants the way she’d put the other ones on only hours previous. The shirt hung loosely against her frame, and she buttoned only the middle section. The socks warmed (Y/N)’s feet immediately, although they were scratchy, and made her ankles itch.

 

“Alright,” she murmured. “I’m dressed.”

 

“Great, now you can reciprocate and hold this for me,” Freddie commanded.

 

“I…” (Y/N)’s voice got caught in her throat. 

 

“Unless you’d rather see me naked, dear?” he quipped. “I don’t mind.” 

He shook the blanket, prompting her to reach for it. (Y/N)’s hands found the edges of the fabric, held it above her head. 

 

She heard Freddie pull on the clean clothes, felt her arms shake with the strain of holding the blanket above her head, flinched when he pulled the fabric from her hands.

 

“Right! Now we both look as ugly as each other,” Freddie laughed, and (Y/N) saw that they were both dressed in similar clothes; loose-fitting plain shirts and trousers, with thick cotton socks. Both of them had damp hair, drying against their necks, and wore exhaustion on their faces.

 

“I’m sorry, Freddie,” (Y/N) blurted out, felt his hand on her shoulder in reply.

 

“It’s my fault,” he sighed. “You’re right. I’ll be more considerate of you. Tomorrow. Tonight, however, you’re staying here, so I can keep an eye on you.”

 

“I don’t have a choice, do I?” (Y/N) tried. 

 

“No,” the man replied. “I think you should get some sleep. You’ve had too much excitement for today.” He pointed to his bed, lowered his gaze. It was an order.

 

(Y/N) exhaled, sat on Freddie’s bed, flopped against the mattress and stared at him, her eyes vacant. She wondered whether he would lay next to her, but this time, her stomach didn’t clench with the thought of his touch. 

Freddie blinked. His mind raced with something to say - anything, but silence seemed comfortable, and the most appropriate option. 

He perched himself on the end of his bed, closed his eyes and listened to his breath, the lilts and falls, and the way it synchronised with (Y/N)’s gentle sighs.

 

Before long, (Y/N) had fallen asleep, lips parted and saliva running down her chin. Freddie pulled the blanket upwards to cover her body, tucked her in as softly as he would his own sister. He stroked her hair, carefully, then left her to sleep soundly, while the stars appeared in the sky, and The Mercury sailed onwards.


	7. VII. Love Poems: 1719 - 1759

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, sorry for the delay! Packing really takes it out of you :/
> 
> Anyways, I've realised that this fic is going to take me much longer to write than I initially planned - but that's ok! I'm enjoying it and I hope you all still are. I struggled with this chapter but I've been writing a few of the later scenes at the same time (exciting)!! 
> 
> Again, unsure when I'll be able to upload the next one at this point but please sit tight.
> 
> A bit of everyone in this chapter! 
> 
> Oh, as a sidenote; when I began writing, I had a very clear image in my mind of what Brian's seaside cottage at Friary Cove looked like, but I couldn't quite place it until recently. If you google "Evening Mood" (1881) by Amaldus Nielsen, you'll find a lovely oil painting that is almost perfect for what I envisioned for Brian's little home. If you've already visualised something else, no worries. But what a beautiful painting! Looks simply idyllic! Alternatively, here's a HD version:
> 
> https://visualelsewhere.wordpress.com/2014/08/07/amaldus-clarin-nielsen-the-royal-collections-norway-aftenstemningevening-mood-1883/ 
> 
> Anyhoo,  
> Thank you for the continued support xx

John had succumbed to the comfort of sleep with his back pressed against the wall of the cabin, his breath turning into muted snores as the sun rose above the horizon and Hutton’s crew boarded the ship, unassuming.

When he woke, the rock of the ship on the water lulled his nerves, and he wondered how many hours it had been since _HMS Romeo_ had left the naval dock.

The sea was a constant; a silent confidant. John reminisced about the times in which he was able to stand out on the deck during a clear day and gaze out upon the water; how if you looked far enough, the sky seemed to almost blend into the sea, a gradient of uncontainable blue, and how sailing forward felt like the horizon itself was holding the sea in its hands, cradling the entire universe.

When the sun was high in the sky, bearing down, warming his body, the wind tugging at his hair, gulls singing in the sky: that was when John felt the most content, the most rooted in satisfaction with his life. John was young, and yet, he had already achieved so much in a short amount of time. Joining the navy when he was sixteen had been a decision he hadn’t anticipated, but after his parents had died, he had nothing left to lose. He’d signed up at Nelson’s encouragement, and been taken under his wing almost immediately, throwing himself into the job so he wouldn’t have to focus on his loss. He’d been immediately praised for his reliability and work ethic. The sea was a hard mistress at times, but the camaraderie made it worth sailing. Being connected into a support system had enabled John to flourish from a teenager to a young man with skills and experience he would not have gained on land, or perhaps in any other profession.

The navy changed constantly; people ranked up, or left to find an easier job back on the shore, prioritised their lives with their new families over the mateship they found on the ocean. In the worst case scenario, they died from illness at sea or slaughter when operations went awry. And yet, although John had found freedom at sea, held ranks as a promising naval officer, and had sailed around the world and seen exotic shores, sometimes, he felt old beyond his years. Eight years, it had been for John. Eight years with friends at sea but none at home, nobody to have a beer with back on the coast, nobody to write soft letters to, or share a laugh with, and no-one to kiss goodnight, wake up to, build a life with.

 In the darkness of the cabin, John inhaled, snapped back to reality; held his breath for a few seconds, then exhaled slowly, letting his shoulders drop further against the floor, felt the curve of his spine against the hardwood. It was still too early to reveal himself, but the darkness was stifling, and he could feel the growing pressure of his bladder. He was developing a headache behind his eyes from dehydration, and the silence was uncomfortable.

John focused instead on wiggling his toes, flexing his feet, rubbing his arms to combat the shivers that ran up and down his body.

 

*

 

Brian sat on his hammock, let his legs dangle over the fabric, pulled the dagger Roger had handed him from its sheath, inspected the blade, the intricate details of the scabbard. It was a fine piece of weaponry, that much was certain: small, and yet, sharp and sleek enough to maim. Carved into the blade just above the hilt was an engraving: “R.M.T.”

This was Taylor’s personal blade, Brian mused! Either it had been a gift he’d received, or he’d had the engraving made especially. Holding it in his hands felt alien, like he had stolen the weapon from the pirate for his own gain. Nonetheless, he reassured himself, it had been a gift. Brian turned the blade in his fingers, watched as the silver caught the light.

Brian sheathed it again, tucked it in his belt, let it hang loose against his hip.

 

*

 

(Y/N) woke to the cry of gulls after a long slumber; her body was tucked carefully under the blankets, her hair dry from the cool air of the night. She hadn’t dreamt, nor tossed or turned. Indeed, she remembered little from last night, only the numbing cold of the ocean, the pain of being dragged forcefully from it, and the tiredness that took her as Freddie had tucked her in and sleep had wrapped her in its arms.

Freddie sat at the end of the bed, his eyes closed. He’d clearly fallen asleep against the backboard, not wanting to intrude on her privacy.

His eyes opened as she shifted and sat up, propped against the pillow. 

 

“Good morning, my darling,” he smiled. “How are you feeling? Well-rested?”

 

(Y/N) swallowed. “I don’t know. I’m still tired.”

 

“You scared us, yesterday!” Freddie reiterated. “How about you take it easy today, yes?”

 

(Y/N) nodded. She had no reason to disagree. The ocean was not against her, but neither was Freddie, in this moment. In his cabin, under his blankets, (Y/N)’s heart ached, and she felt that for a moment, he could pass as a companion, under better circumstances.

 

“Did anything happen last night?” she stammered. “Be- between us?”

 

Freddie raised his eyebrows. “We… took our wet clothes off and changed into dry ones?”

 

“That’s not what I meant,” (Y/N) mumbled. “I mean after that.”

 

“I’m not that kind of man,” Freddie stated, and his tone was cool. “I need you to know that.”

 

(Y/N) met his eyes, _really_ looked into them, took note of his irises, the dark pupils and the way the light caught them, the long black eyelashes that framed his gaze. Freddie held the eye contact, didn’t blink.

 

“Alright,” (Y/N) looked away. “I’m sorry for insinuating.”

 

Freddie nodded, twisted the rings on his fingers, eyes locked on his knees.

 

“I’m taking you to Curacao, dear,” he exclaimed, “to make up for this whole situation.”

 

“What?” (Y/N) frowned.

 

“Well, I’ve been thinking,” Freddie explained. “You’re right, dear: even though you are in fact, on my ship, I can’t take away your free will. But I’d certainly prefer that you didn’t try to off yourself every spare moment you get. So, well…” he hesitated, then, “perhaps we could get to know each other, for the moment, and uh… have a bit of fun, no? So, I’m taking you to Curacao. It’s a lovely little island. You must have the fish there!” He blew a kiss. “Gorgeous! And the goat stew! And! Fried plantain - oh, it’s delectable, darling! I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

His excitement radiated through the cabin, (Y/N)’s breath steadying as she took in how he laughed and bounced up and down on the bed. In the moments she was alone with him, Freddie seemed almost a child, full of love for life and exuberance for mischief. She wondered how a man of his joviality would stomach handing her to a savage, sailing away from her with the immunity he so craved, knowing that he was signing her death sentence. Perhaps he was desensitised to the gritty realities of his lifestyle, or maybe, he felt so guilty about the end that he was attempting to make the journey enjoyable - at least, as enjoyable as it could be. (Y/N) felt almost that she was walking through a sun-drenched forest with her eyes closed, bathed in the sounds and smells of a beautiful landscape; but any moment, she would lose her footing, come to the edge of the forest, and be plunged downwards, into the darkness, falling to her death - or finding it, at the bottom.

 

*

 

John rolled out from under the hammock, shuffled past a rucksack that had been thrown loosely on the floor of the cabin. Bags should be placed on hammocks, until the officer slept on them; then they should be tucked neatly underneath.

 _Procedure,_ John grunted. Perhaps Hutton’s crew were a bit more liberal than what he was used to at sea. He hoped that he wouldn't be detected, as he knelt on the ground and stretched out, stood to his full height. The ship was quiet, unusually so; the officers must be lounging in the wardroom, John figured. He walked slowly through the cabins until he reached the main deck of the ship. The moon hung in the sky, shining down on the water, and John walked to the edge of the deck, held the rail as he undid his pants and let relief wash over him. 

“Deacon?” a voice called.

 

John flinched, scrunched his face into a grimace. He couldn’t turn, but he recognised the tone. The smooth, Irish accent, and the chuckle as the man realised the predicament in which he’d found the stowaway.

 

“Are you pissing over the side of my ship?”

 

“No…” John lied. “Just admiring the view…”

 

It was Hutton.

 

The man walked closer, a pipe between his lips, until he was standing next to John.

John bit his lip, tied his pants up. Hutton was shorter than he but still commanded authority, his body claiming the space he took up like he was the only man worthy of it.

 

“Sir,” John turned, saluted.

Hutton mirrored him, kept eye contact. Then, his gaze softened, became almost familial.

 

 _“John,_ I haven’t seen you for a while. You must tell me how you are, but first, indulge me: why on earth are you a stowaway on my vessel?”

 

John swallowed. “It has been a while, Jim, I’m sorry. Things have been busy. Are you going to declare mutiny, turn this ship around?”

 

Jim bit his lip, looked John up and down, squinted. “Now, why would I do that? Surely a naval commander knows what he’s doing? Tell you what, you come and have a drink with me and explain yourself, and I’ll decide overnight whether I should dock tomorrow and expose you as an insubordinate.”

His tone was warm, but John sensed concern behind the facade.

 

“Alright,” he agreed, exhaled, let his eyes linger on the condensation of his breath.

 

“You must be starving!” Jim prompted. “Where did you come from? The cabins?”

 

“Yes,” John replied, followed Hutton to his room, wary of the ways his boots thudded against the wood of the deck.

 

*

 

Roger opened the door to his cabin almost immediately after Brian had knocked, raised his eyebrows when he saw the taller man in the doorway.

 

“May. Come in,” he allowed, closed the door behind them. “Speak! Drink?”

 

“No, thank you,” Brian denied, waved his hand in the air.

 

“Come on! Drink.” Roger poured a glass of liquor, handed it to him. Brian took the glass reluctantly, sipped carefully. The alcohol slid down his throat easily, but it stung, left a bitter aftertaste. Fresh water at sea was a luxury, and Brian was getting sick of the liquor, the way it made him dehydrated. The rest of the crew were mindlessly drunk at almost every moment; and Brian wondered whether Roger himself was consistently intoxicated, or whether his constitution was strong enough to function rationally despite being tipsy. Perhaps one day he’d ask.

 

“I was wondering if I could borrow some books off your shelf?” Brian swallowed. “Mine got waterlogged when I boarded this ship and I wasn’t able to salvage them.”

 

“What do you want books for?” Roger scoffed.

 

“To read…?” Brian trailed off. “Why do you have them in your cabin?”

 

“To read.” Roger snapped.

 

“Which one is your favourite?” Brian prompted, pointed to the shelf where Roger’s stack of books overflowed.

 

Roger’s lips drew into a thin line. He walked to the shelf, inspected them tentatively, then pulled out a red book with its cover almost detached from the spine.

“This one,” he spoke quickly.

 

Brian took the book from the pirate’s hands, brushed his palm over the cover to remove the dust, turned it over, read the title.

 

“Love Poems: 1719 - 1759?”

 

Roger froze, and his face went white. “What?” He stammered. “Can’t a man feel romantic when the mood takes him?”

 

“You can’t read, can you?” Brian mused, lips pulling into a smile.

 

Roger licked his lips. He inhaled, felt hairs stand on the back of his neck. He could, once, albeit poorly. But years at sea had brought him different priorities. He met Brian’s eyes, felt his breath settle. There was no air of judgement in them.

 

“Will you teach me, May?”

 

Brian raised his eyebrows. “Actually?”

 

Roger shrugged. “Or don’t.”

 

“No, no, I can.” Brian stroked a hand over the cover of the book. “I _can_ teach you, if you like.”

 

Roger snatched the poetry book out of his hands, put it back on the shelf.

“Not that one. Not that love shit.”

 

Brian smiled. “No chance of reciting it to a woman?”

 

“I should cut your tongue out for that comment,” Roger rasped, but his tone was cordial.

“Poems only work on women who want you to marry them, court them slowly and _respectfully_ so on and so forth.”

 

 _Like your wife?_ Brian thought, pondered silently for a moment; but he dared not speak of her. Indeed, it seemed intangible to imagine a man of Roger’s calibre reading poetry to a woman he fancied.

 

Roger sat back on his desk. “Take whichever books you’d like, May. I have no use for them, as long as I can’t understand their contents.”

“What are you interested in?” Brian murmured, “and I’ll find a book for you to learn to read.”

 

Roger’s lips drew down. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I like… I like science, like those men who study living things.”

 

“Biology?” Brian’s tone was audibly excitable.

 

“Is that what it’s called? Alright,” Roger accepted. “Perhaps you can find me one about that, then.”

 

Brian moved to the bookshelf, rummaged around, his slender fingers dragging over the words that were embossed on the spines. Roger watched as Brian read the titles, searched the collection of discarded books.

 

“You have a copy of _Histoire Naturelle_?” Brian laughed.

 

“Is that good?” Roger frowned.

 

“Only if you can speak and read French,” Brian purred, “and you’ve read the first eight volumes. This is the ninth,” he held it up, waved it about.

 

“How many are there?” Roger choked.

 

“Thirty six, I think,” Brian’s eyes flicked upwards, tried to remember. “Anyways, it seems you don’t really have any books about natural science or biology…”

 

“What _do I_ have?” Roger inquired.

 

Brian pulled out a piece of parchment, slid a spine of a Sanskrit text off the shelf. He opened the text, flipped through the pages.

 

“Huh, this is something else…” a frown furrowed his brow. “There’s just… pictures…oh...”

 

“Oh yeah,” Roger smiled, a toothy grin. “I like that one!”

 

“This is against the law in England!” Brian met his eyes, a grin tugging at his lips. “Where did you get this?”

 

“For God’s sakes, May, are you not paying any attention?” Roger mocked lightly. “I’m a _pirate.”_ A glint shone in his eyes, “Wanna borrow that one?”

 

“No, I’m alright,” Brian shrugged. “Maybe one day.”

 

Roger nodded, sat back down, blew hot air out of his lips.

 

“Used my dagger yet?”

 

“No,” Brian murmured. “No need to, really.”

 

Roger frowned. “You know, for all the rapport that pirates seem to attract, sailing _is_ rather quite boring, don’t you think?”

 

“Is that a trick question?” Brian paused.

 

“No?” Roger pulled his legs upwards, spread them out on the table. “Why should it be?”

 

“It’s not as boring as fishing,” Brian indulged him. “At least on your ship, I can use my hands, do something useful. Back home, I feel useless, redundant.”

 

“I’m not drunk enough to hear about your life back home,” Roger dismissed. “So, when we dock,” he changed the subject quickly, “I’ve decided I want a chicken, for some eggs. Your job is going to be to get me a hen. Understand? Hell, get more than one if you can. Take a hessian sack and shove the fat things in it.”

 

“What?” Brian stuttered. “Chicken?”

 

“Take a sack. Find chickens. Catch them. Put them in the sack.” Roger drawled.

 

“Right,” Brian knitted his fingers together. “When are we docking, exactly?”

 

Roger shrugged. “When we see land next.”

 

“Oh…” Brian trailed off. Who knew when that would be?

 

“So,” Roger babbled, pouring himself another drink. “When will you be honest with me about your intentions aboard this ship?”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“You heard me.”

 

Brian bit his lip, frowned, watched as Roger gulped the liquor, held his gaze.

 

“Perhaps that’s my own business,” Brian spoke quickly, courage clutching him for a sporadic moment.

 

Roger nodded. “Alright, May. Keep your secret, then. I’ll get it out of you, sooner or later.”

 

“You don’t have to worry,” Brian snapped. “I’m not here to cause trouble, for you or your crew. I’ve been working.”

 

“Your commitment is commendable,” Roger huffed, dryly, “I hope that whatever you’re looking for, you find it.”

 

Brian inhaled. He wasn’t sure whether Roger was serious in his affirmation, or whether his tone proclaimed sarcasm. Either way, it was clear the pirate no longer wished to speak to him, as he downed his drink and turned to face the window, look out at the ocean.

Brian walked across the room, found the book of poetry that Roger had put back in its place, took it from the shelf and clutched it to his chest as he moved to the doorframe. He noticed the blonde turn to watch him from his peripheral vision, but both men remained silent.

 

“If you’re here for love,” Roger prompted, “the seas are not the place for it. You should’ve stayed back on the shore where you had a chance.”

 

Brian felt it then: the sting that pierced his chest and spread down into his stomach, hot fire from Roger’s silvertongue. If only he knew. Brian paused in the doorframe, waited until his breath was stable, then left the pirate alone, slumped in his chair, eyes fixed on the sea as if it was the first time he’d ever seen how blue it was, how he couldn’t drag his gaze away in case he missed something that nobody else was looking for.

 

*

 

“So let me get this straight,”Jim began, as he and John sat opposite each other in Jim’s cabin, each clutching a glass of rum. “You boarded my ship because of a woman you’ve never met in your life, who you don’t even know is _alive_ , and in the process, disobeyed naval orders to _not_ go to sea. Am I right?”

 

“I’m here because I owe a friend a favour, and because if I didn’t come, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself; knowing I had a chance to repay a man for his goodness to me, and I turned it down.” John clarified. “I know to you it might sound rash or foolish on my part, but I feel I owe that man my life, and I will do everything in my ability to bring his daughter home to him, whether you help me or not. Besides, you were sent on this operation but you have no connection to Nelson. I do.”

 

“You are in such trouble, John! Do you realise just how much strife you’ll be in with the navy?” the Irishman cackled.

 

“Well,” John mused, sipped the rum in his glass, let it warm him, “I’ve certainly had a good few hours to reflect on it.”

 

Jim laughed at this, swallowed his own drink. “Alright,” he chuckled, “here’s the deal: You command my ship, and I’ll help _you_ get Nelson’s daughter.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Well, let’s just say we had a beer like Rutherford suggested. Perhaps I commanded you to come with me, and you obeyed my orders. We set sail together. No stowing away, no sneaking around. I asked you to come with me and you did, and here we are, as equals, on our operation to find Nelson’s missing daughter.”

 

“Jim, you don’t have to lie for me,” John bowed his head, watched the liquor catch the light as he swirled it around in his glass. “Besides, we both know that’s not how the navy works. I won’t drag you into my plight. It’s my burden. I’ll take the blame.”

 

“It’s not a lie,” Jim offered, reached out to touch John on the shoulder. “I respect you. I want you to be here. You’re the best man for the job! Command my ship, and I’ll put you up for a promotion when we get back to England’s shores. Think of it like an extended training exercise.”  


John exhaled, blinked gently. The opportunity of a lifetime. And yet, it didn’t excite him, didn’t tug at his gut or make his heart flutter with hope. Jim noticed his pause.

 

“Don’t let it be your burden, John.”

 

John met Jim’s eyes, saw the smile grace the Irishman’s face, a sweet smile.

 

“Alright,” John nodded. “I’ll do it. I owe you.”

 

“You owe me nothing,” Jim waved his hand flippantly. “Just your good company and excellent sense of humour.”

 

John grinned, held his glass up; already the alcohol had soaked into his stomach, made him feel hot and bubbly. Jim clinked his against it, and the two men laughed, drank together.


	8. VIII. Of Sex, Syllables and Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! As Samwise Gamgee says: "I'm back." Hopefully for a while.  
> Thank you for bearing with me - I moved out and have been unpacking 3 years of my life.
> 
> This one came along extremely slowly, but I hope you enjoy it, nonetheless. I was going to write some more of it before I uploaded it, but I thought I'd better post this so you all know I'm still here haha. 
> 
> Some cute reading progress happens in this chapter. I hope you all like it. Let me know!!
> 
> Thanks for your patience xx

The morning sun shone down upon Brian and Netley as they sat on the deck of The Cross, nursing alcohol, a pipe hanging from Netley’s chapped lips. Brian sat upwind of him, his lanky legs stretched out in front of him, his boots removed to reveal pale feet. He chewed on a rubbery carrot, choking down the orange chunks slowly, to appease his groaning stomach.

 

“What do ye reckon Taylor’s Christian name is?” Netley prompted as Brian drank the rum in his glass, revelled in the sun, his curls catching in the breeze. He was clutching the book of poems, rifling through to find some words he could teach the pirate captain.

“Me ‘n’ the lads have been tossing up between Julien and Fernando.”

 

Brian laughed, his eyes closing with joy as his laugh rumbled through his chest. 

“They’re both very beautiful names, for such a man of Taylor’s calibre.”

 

“What?” Netley frowned. “What’s wrong with either of them? Julien or Fernando very well could be his name! Unless it’s something ridiculous.”

 

“His name starts with R,” Brian hinted. “R, M.”

 

“R? How do you know that?” Netley laughed. “Do you have a book or something about pirate’s names? Hmmm. R, you say? Well, then! Reginald,” Netley decided. “That’s what I’m going with! Reginald.” 

 

“That’s very proper,” Brian uttered.

 

“Alright. What else could it be? Rudolph? Ralph! Reuben? Rochester? Richard? Dick! That’d be convenient.” Netley paused. “What if he has a woman’s name like Rochelle?”

 

“Why would he have a woman’s name?” Brian teased. 

 

“He looks a bit like a lassie!” Netley tried.

 

“Only because of his hair. He was born naked, no doubt.” Brian offered. 

 

“So?” 

 

Brian erupted in laughter again.  _ “So, _ it was probably pretty evident to his mother that he was male.”

 

“Why have we never heard what it is, then?” Netley countered, his hands thrown up in the air. “What if it’s absolutely stupid, and he doesn’t want anybody to find out because he’s embarrassed?”

 

Brian shrugged. “It’s not that deep. Maybe it’s just private.”

 

“Nothing’s private on board a pirate-ship, laddie. Ah! I know: Rochelle Michelle!” 

 

“No!”

 

“Reginald Magnus, then,” Netley shrugged. “That’s what I’ve decided.”

 

“Sounds like he should be the Lord of a castle in Scotland,” Brian hurled, “not a pirate.”

 

“I dare you to ask him, then,” Netley guffawed. “Prove that it  _ isn’t  _ Reginald Magnus!”

 

“What? No,” Brian laughed. “Nice try.”

 

“Come on! Do it!” Netley jabbed a finger in his ribs.

 

“I don’t care,” Brian rebutted, swatting his hand away. “I’m  _ not _ going to ask him if his name is Reginald Magnus Taylor. He’d slaughter me on the spot for idiocy.”

 

Netley bit his lip. “What’s  _ your _ name, May?” 

 

“Mine? Uh.. my name is Brian.” 

 

“Huh… wouldn’t have picked you for a ‘Brian’,” Netley murmured, his eyes dragging over Brian’s face. “Christopher maybe.”

 

“Christopher?!” Brian scrunched his face up, shrugged. “And yours?” he raised an eyebrow.

 

“Why should I tell you?” Netley swallowed. “If you won’t ask Taylor for his.”

 

“Alright,” Brian murmured. “Forget it, then. Not an issue.” 

He turned back to the book, folding the tops of the corners down when he found a page with an appropriately simple word that he could teach Taylor to read.

 

Netley seemed not to mind, instead drawing his gaze to the blue sky, unmarked by clouds. 

“Eat your bloody carrot then,” he smiled, turned back to his pipe.

 

*

 

Brian scooped up the book as the morning turned to midday, the breeze halted and the ocean continued to sigh around him, no land yet in sight. He stretched, groaned, crawled upwards and looked over the side of the deck: nothing but blue! The ocean was as endless as the voyage seemed to be, and Brian swallowed as he indulged in his memories from Friary Cove. What he wouldn’t give to be back on the inlet, walking along the sand with bare feet, the waves kissing his ankles with each break of the ocean against the shore. Brian felt his throat tense as he blinked, dragged his eyes away from the sea, pushed the longing that welled in his stomach back down.

He flinched as a voice called out to him, snapped him back to his position on the deck.

 

“What do you have there?” It was the pirate captain, walking towards him, his footsteps disturbing the silence as the heels of his boots clanked against the wooden deck.

Brian looked down upon Roger; he was pointing to the book with lips parted, his hair tied into a loose ponytail, short strands falling free against his ears. “Not that bloody poetry book, I hope?”

 

“Our first lesson!” Brian chimed. “When you’re ready.”

 

Roger raised an eyebrow. “A man taking control! Right. Let’s get to it, then.”

 

“You don’t want to spend any time in the sun?” Brian stammered. “It’s nice out here.”

 

Roger frowned, a smile gracing his lips. His response was to turn and walk away, below deck.

Brian followed the captain through the winding hall, back to his cabin, took a seat at Roger’s prompting. The smaller man sat in his chair, put his feet up on the desk.

 

“Do you have any paper? Or a quill?” Brian began.

 

“Do I look like the kind of person who has a quill?” Roger growled. “If I can’t read, how can I write?”

 

“Uh, I need something to write down the letters,” Brian explained, caught off guard by the man’s defensive tone. “If you have some ink, I can use my finger.”

 

Roger scrunched his face, rifled through the draws of his desk, pulling out papers and parchment and throwing them unabashedly onto the floor. He growled as the corner of one of the papers caught his index finger, sliced open his flesh swiftly.

 

“Fuck!” Roger screeched. “Stupid thing!” He pushed the digit into his mouth, sucked to stop the bleeding, kicked the desk with his boot. Brian stayed silent, shrunk against the chair. 

 

Eventually, Roger pulled out a glass pot, sealed at the top, held it against his chest while his other hand twisted the lid off, his finger still between his lips. 

 

“There you are, May.” 

 

Brian nodded as Roger slammed the pot back against the desk, slid it to him. He caught the glass, held it up to inspect the ink. It was dark, smelled putrid - worse than the alcohol the crew kept making him swallow, and had tiny particles of sludge drying against the edges of the glass. Bubbles rose at the surface of the liquid, and Brian inhaled. 

 

He reached down, took a piece of parchment from the floor of the cabin, rested it on the desk. Roger’s eyes followed him as Brian dipped his little finger into the ink, swirled it, pulled it out and drew a splotchy shape on the parchment.

 

**A a**

 

“What is this?” Brian held up the paper, was met with Roger squinting.

 

“A black mark,” Roger paused. “Two black marks.”

 

“This is A,” Brian explained. “There’s one of these in your name. It’s the second letter in ‘Taylor’. You pronounce it exactly how I just said that. A.” 

 

“A,” Roger repeated. “Why are there two of them?”

 

“One is capitalised, so when you begin a sentence or use a name, that’s the one you use. Otherwise, the second one will do. Think of it as a parent and a child.”

 

Roger snorted, shrugged. “Alright.”

 

“This letter can be pronounced in different ways, though,” Brian continued. “Think of the words  _ father  _ and  _ about. _ Faather, uh-bout. You can hear it: One of these is  _ long _ , one is  _ short _ . Long. Short.”

 

“Long and short? What exactly are you describing now?” Taylor laughed. 

 

“Are you going to focus, or not?” Brian tapped his finger on the parchment. “Or are you too interested in your crude innuendos?”

 

Roger met his gaze, annoyance painted over his face, but it was matched by Brian’s raw disgust, his eyes dark and his mouth a thin line. He leant back in his chair, cocked his head to the side. 

“I never said anything  _ rude _ .”

 

“You didn’t have to,” Brian snapped. “I knew you were thinking it. Grow up.”

 

“Tense and frustrated, already, I see?” Roger remarked. “Are you desperate for shore like I said you would be?”

 

“I’m not the problem here,” Brian hissed. “You said you wanted to learn to read! So here I am. Are you going to let me teach you, or not?”

 

Roger nodded. “Alright!” He waved his hand in the air, inspected his papercut.

 

“Now, think of the word ‘Australasia’,” Brian continued. “There are four A’s in that word, and each one is pronounced differently.” 

 

“Why is pronunciation important?” Roger whined. “Can’t we get on with it?”

 

“You have to learn to speak it if you want to learn to read it,” Brian elaborated. “It’s good that you can speak English already, but it’ll come in handy if you know the sounds when they’re on the paper in front of you.” 

 

Roger shrugged, reached for the rum that was on his desk. 

 

“None of that,” Brian stared at him. “It’ll draw your focus.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Don’t drink now,” Brian’s tone remained calm. “Please.”

 

“God, you’re a hard teacher,” Roger snickered. “What’s next?”

 

“B is next,” Brian dipped his finger in the ink again, drew another squiggle on the parchment. 

 

**B b**

 

“This is B. This letter is the first letter of my name. You pronounce it on its own like ‘bee’. Or if it’s the first letter, the sound is like ‘buh’, so uh… bottle or… bang.” 

 

“Baby,” Roger purred.

 

“Yes, that’s right!” Brian laughed. “That word has two, b-ay-b-ee.”

 

_ “Bitch,” _ Roger continued, his lips drawn into a smile. 

 

Brian nodded. “Sure…”

 

“Bastard?” 

 

“Uh, yes,” Brian appeased. “There see, you’ve got it already. Have a look at it.” 

 

He passed the parchment to Roger, who rotated it, squinting.

 

“Big breasted babes,” Roger wiggled his eyebrows. “This letter is my favourite so far.”

 

“Righto,” Brian murmured. “Would you like to write it down?”

 

“Uh, why?” Roger handed him back the parchment. “I can read it now; it’s the one that looks like this.” He wiggled his finger in the air, tracing the curves of the capitalised letter.

 

“If you write it down you’ll understand it a bit better,” Brian offered. 

 

Roger bit the inside of his cheek, extended his hand and clicked at Brian, who slid him the jar of ink. Their eyes locked as Roger dipped his finger in the dark liquid, grimaced, pulled the digit out and drew the B crudely on the parchment, splattering excess ink that dripped off his finger.

 

“There. Happy, May?” He smiled, showed Brian the parchment.

 

**B**

 

“Nice!” Brian’s smile matched Roger’s. “Try the lowercase version?”

 

Roger bit his lip, wiped the excess ink off his finger onto his pants, plunged it into the glass again and drew out a smaller letter next to the capital.

 

“Great!” Brian laughed. “Want to try the A?”

 

Roger stared at Brian’s drawing, drew the A in three swift lines, looped his finger to create the smaller letter.

 

“Fantastic,” Brian nudged. “This is a great beginning. You’ll be able to read the entire alphabet soon.”

 

“How many letters are in the alphabet?” Roger purred.

 

“Twenty six,” Brian elaborated. “I think we can get through two more today, does that sound alright?”

 

Roger nodded, eyes flicking to the alcohol on his desk. “Twenty-six…”

 

“Come on!” Brian tapped the table, careful not to startle Roger.

 

“Alright, May,” Roger nodded. “Two more, then.”

 

“Let me know if it gets confusing.”

 

“What are you saying?” Roger snapped. “That I can’t handle it?”

 

“No, no, of course not,” Brian raised his hands, “you’re getting the hang of it very quickly! You’re a natural.”

 

Roger nodded smugly. “That’s what I thought.”

 

“Alright,” Brian sighed. “The next letter is C. This is where it can get tricky; C can be a hard sound or a soft sound. Like carrot, or uh… celebration.”

 

“It’s the same letter, but with different sounds?”

 

“Yes, remember our A in Australasia? One letter, multiple sounds. So, this one is really easy to draw. It’s just like this.”

Brian took the ink pot again, drew a semicircle on the parchment. “This one is the same for the capital and lowercase versions.”

 

“C,” the pirate chewed his lip, sounded it out phonetically.  _ “Cunt,” _ Roger hissed, exposing his teeth. “That’s right isn’t it?”

 

“Uh… Yes that’s right.” Brian shifted in his chair.

 

“Say it,” Roger bit his lip. 

 

“Why?”

 

“I’ve never heard you swear, and I want to know if you have it in you.”

 

“I don’t like that word,” Brian stammered. “It’s not very nice.”

 

“Fine. Choose another one.”

 

Brian noticed Roger’s eyes, the dark irises, the way his mouth twitched in anticipation as he leant forwards over the desk.

 

He inhaled, shrugged. “Uh, shit, I guess.”

 

“Mmmm, I know that one in Italian,” Roger smiled.

 

“Oh?”

 

“Fucked an Italian girl a few years ago, in her father’s vineyard. She kept exclaiming it.”

 

“Perhaps she was in pain?!” Brian’s tone was deeper, stained with worry. 

 

“Oh no,” Roger laughed. “Not when she looked like this.”

 

Immediately he threw his head backwards, eyes squeezed closed, his mouth hanging open, and breathed “merde, oh merde, hah, oh God!” in a softer voice, clearly an imitation of the woman he so remembered. 

 

Brian tapped his fingers on the desk as Roger demonstrated the strangled breaths, thrust his hips upwards, grabbed his throat with his own hand, stopped abruptly and smiled, revealing his jagged teeth.

 

“You’re disgusting,” Brian scowled. 

 

“When you finally have a woman under you, May, you come and let me know how euphoric it feels to have her swearing for you. Then you’ll get it.”

Roger laughed. “God, she was so good! Perhaps one day I’ll go back to that vineyard and take her again while her husband works in the fields.”

 

“Do you have no respect?” Brian snapped. “Do you ever think you’re doing a disservice to those poor women that you use and leave to pick up the pieces of their lives?”

 

“What’s the matter?” Roger growled. “Can’t I have some fun? I’m fairly sure they  _ wanted me _ to be _ inside them _ when they were crying out my name. Take my advice, May: don’t think too hard about the future! You’re young; if a woman wants you, take her in the moment and enjoy her while you can. Besides, what  _ are _ you? The sex police?! Does it get exhausting, knowing everyone  _ but you  _ is fucking?”

 

“No, it doesn’t,” Brian raised his voice. “It’s not an issue for me! I could if I wanted to. You pirates all with your fucking sex addiction, your alcoholism! Don’t you have a hobby? A… a different hobby?”

 

“Like what?” Roger yelled, rose from his chair. “What else  _ can I _ do? I’m a pirate, a criminal, a good-for-nothing son of a bitch who nobody wants to trust. My hands are tainted! What have I except to drink and fuck and sail? Don’t you understand they’re my only pleasures? What would you have me do? Waltz onto land and start serving ales in a tavern? Become a painter or a writer or a doctor?”

 

“Why not?!” Brian snapped. “Surely you’re not irredeemable! You don’t  _ believe _ that?! Sail to Germany or Singapore or Portugal where nobody knows your name or your past and start again! Find something you’re good at, something you love to do.”

 

“You’re a child,” Roger snarled. “You know nothing about the world.”

 

“No, perhaps not,” Brian sat back in his chair, folded his arms, “but I _ do _ know how to read and write, and we’re not finished. One more letter.”

 

“Oh, fuck off!” Roger rolled his eyes.

 

“No, not until we finish. That’s what we agreed. You promised: A pirate captain should keep his word.”

 

“You’re utterly annoying,” Roger sighed, but his tone was not aggressive. “Fucking wanker.” He sat again, crossed his legs.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Brian waved the abuse off. “A fucking wanker who wants to fulfil my promise to you. One more letter, then we’ll stop for the day.”

 

Roger reached for the alcohol, and Brian didn’t chastise him. He poured himself a drink, downed the entire glass, filled it again, met Brian’s eyes.

 

“D,” Brian growled. “Like ‘dickhead’.” 

 

Roger felt shivers run down his spine, the hairs on his arms standing up. May was using his own technique against him, and he was damn well good at it. Perhaps there was pirate in him, after all. 

 

“D,” Roger repeated. “Despicable.”

 

Brian drew the fourth letter on the parchment, his finger now wrinkled from the moisture of the dark ink. He tossed the paper at Roger, who fumbled to catch it, inspected his papercut before he looked down at the writing. 

 

Brian watched as the smaller man blinked, squinted, brushed a strand of gold away from his face, tucked it behind his ear. He frowned as Roger rotated the parchment, held it closer to his eyes. 

 

“So this one is… like half of B?” Roger murmured.

 

“No… Well, I suppose… if that helps you remember it.” Brian swallowed. 

 

“Alright.” Roger reached for the ink, dipped his finger in and drew a wonky D. 

 

“There, we’re done.”

 

“Not yet,” Brian protested, holding out a hand. “I want you to write a word! That way, we can say that today you learned one!”

Roger paused for a moment, eyes raking over the parchment as he clutched his alcohol glass to his chest. “Alright.”

 

“Alright,” Brian announced as his finger drew out the word once more. “What does this say?”

  
  


**B a d**

 

“I… I don’t know,” Roger groaned.

 

“Yes you do! We just learnt all of these letters. Why don’t you sound them out, like I taught you?” Brian encouraged, a smile on his lips.

 

Roger stayed silent, ran a hand through his ponytail, pulled the ribbon out. His hair fell loose, draping over his shoulders and framing his face. “I feel… embarrassed,” he mewled, his voice almost a whisper, softer than what Brian had heard before.

 

“Why?” Brian frowned. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, really. What are you embarrassed about? Sounding out the words?”

 

“I… I don’t want to feel like a fool, at least… not in front of you,” Roger muttered. “You’re right about me; I’m only really good at drinking and sleeping around. I can hold a pistol, use a sword, sail for months, but… I have no real skills. When it comes to academics, you’re the better man.”

 

“You’re… embarrassed that you’re being taught to read by  _ me? _ ” Brian gasped. “Oh, I…”

 

Roger shrugged. “Don’t make a big thing of it. I just… I don’t want my crew to find out. Can this be… our secret?”

 

They locked eyes then - Roger’s blue and Brian’s green, and both of their gazes were kind, understanding, mutually vulnerable. The silence permeated for a moment too long before Brian cleared his throat.

 

“Yes.” He nodded. “I mean… I won’t tell them. It can be between us.”

 

“Good,” Roger accepted. “If I find out you’ve told them I’ll cut your toes off, one by one, and use your blood as ink instead.”

 

“Are -” Brian opened his mouth, then shrunk against the seat. “Right.” The desire to question the pirate’s seriousness was readily outweighed by the need to stay safe at sea. 

“If you like, I’ll sound the letters out with you.”

 

Roger nodded, pointed at the first one. “B.”

 

“Yes, but because it’s at the beginning of the word it’s sound changes, remember? B for buh.”

 

“Buh,” Roger purred. 

 

“A. Now this one, this is the trickiest one. What sound do you think this one makes? Remember ‘Australasia’.”

 

Roger scratched his temple, stretched his hand out. “Um…”

 

Brian shot him a tender smile, sat in the silence.

 

“Ahhhh…” Roger’s eyes flicked up to meet Brian’s, sweat forming on his Cupid’s bow. 

 

“Close,” Brian nodded. “Try another. You should feel this sound in the back of your throat, here” - he pressed slender fingers under his jawbones, - “when you vocalise it.”

 

Roger cleared his throat, held the parchment up to his eyes, squinted. “Uh… Uhh? Orrr…”

 

“Aeh,” Brian helped, his voice soft.

 

“Aaaeeeehhh?” The pirate tried, coughed.

 

“Yes, well done!” Brian felt his breath drop back in, realised the tension he’d been holding. “A is one of the hardest letters; many sounds!”

 

“This one is… d, right?”

 

“Yes. So, when we put together buh-aaeeh-duh, what do we get?”

 

“Um. Buh… buuhaaaeeeeddddd…. Buh… ba-ed. Bad?” 

 

Brian chuckled then, listening to Roger’s soft voice sound out the word. “Yes!” He exclaimed. “Bad!”

 

“I’m bad at this!” Roger joked.

 

“No, you aren’t,” the words rolled gently off Brian’s tongue. “You’re very intelligent; it would be a waste for you to not try.”

 

Roger dipped his head at that, a silent thank you, as Brian understood it. 

 

“Would you like a drink, May?” 

 

“No thank you,” Brian bit his lip. “It’s yours.”

 

Roger nodded, ran his fingers over the parchment, where he’d drawn the letters, stained the paper with ink blotches. 

 

Brian sat for a moment, then moved out of the chair. “Um… see you next time, then, I guess.”

 

“Alright,” Roger purred, “Perhaps uh… Perhaps you can come tomorrow and teach me some more letters.”

 

“Of course, my Lord,” Brian nodded.

 

“May!” Roger snapped as Brian moved to the door. “Remember: not a  _ word  _ to my crew!”

 

“My lips are sealed!” Brian promised. “It’s not for me to share.”

 

“May!” Roger called again, and this time Brian turned around to face him.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Thank you.” 

 

The words rolled gently out of his mouth, and sitting in his chair, staring up at Brian, Roger did not look to him like a pirate, or a man whose reputation was one that instilled fear in the hearts of men. Rather, his demeanour seemed to be that of a new student: gentle, calm, vulnerable, a little bit proud, and with bright eyes full of potential. And when Brian looked upon him, he saw reflected back in Roger’s gaze his own boyish naivety, his own desire to learn about the world and all its intricacies, and above all, a man who perhaps was yet to realise he was being handed a tool to piece things back together with his own two hands.


	9. IX. Curacao

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! How embarrassing - I promised I was back and then I disappeared again!  
> I am back now, I'm sure of it, for a while.
> 
> Uhhhh I've been depressed which is why this chapter is so late. I applied to do a second degree at  
> university and got rejected, so atm my life is a bit uncertain since I also have no job & can't drive on my own. I was planning to study creative writing or something like that, but obviously that's not what's meant to happen right at this moment. Oh well - more time to write!
> 
> I've been doing some drawings related to this fic so hopefully soon I will be able to post a link to some of them. 
> 
> Curacao has some fascinating history about its coloured buildings - have a google! They're fantastic! All the sources I checked said they were painted in the early 1800s, so why not 1806? 
> 
> *
> 
> Anyways, if you're still here, thank you. Your patience & support is appreciated. 
> 
> Let me know how this chapter reads; this is the longest one yet.  
> As always, more to come.
> 
> With love xx

“Curacao!” Freddie screeched as the speck of land rose from the horizon. “Look! Look, (Y/N), there it is!” 

 

“It’s tiny!” (Y/N) murmured as Freddie hung over the edge of the ship, clicked his fingers. 

 

“It is now, dear. It’s not so tiny once we’re upon her shores.”

 

Within moments, a crew-member had rushed over with wooden binoculars, and Freddie held them eagerly to his face, drinking in the view for what seemed to (Y/N) like hours. The sunset painted itself on the cerulean sky, streaks of pink and orange like someone had cracked an egg and stirred its yolk with their fingers. 

 

“We should be there by morning!” Freddie laughed, his hand clutching the binoculars as he grasped (Y/N) by the shoulders and dragged her upwards, spinning her around with unadulterated impulse. (Y/N) let out a shriek, the man’s actions catching her off guard.

 

“Oh, darling,” he cried, “aren’t you excited?! Aren’t you happy that you get to put your feet on land again?!”

 

“I’d be happier” - (Y/N) composed herself - “if the land I got to put my feet on was Friary Cove, and you were  _ returning  _ me to my father.”

 

Freddie rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes,” he waved her off, “but we made a deal,  _ so,  _ Curacao it is. Just you wait until we have the fish; it’s so good, oh you could die!” 

 

“Hopefully,” (Y/N) laughed.

 

“No wonder I like you,” Freddie smiled, bearing white buck teeth. “You’re dry, like me. Come on, let’s get wet!”

 

“W… wet?”

 

“Let’s get absolutely fucking smashed, darling!” Freddie drawled. “This is a celebration.”

 

(Y/N) sighed. Despite being her kidnapper, Freddie was remarkably mellow. He seemed to take life with a grain of salt, not letting the bad get him down. Perhaps, (Y/N) mused, she could learn something from him. 

As Freddie poured her a drink and clinked their glasses, she inhaled, gazed at the sky. Wherever she was right now, she was under it, and under the same sky was her father, and her gentle neighbour, and if they were looking up too, then they were all connected, despite being far away from each other.

 

*

 

“Come, come,” Freddie clapped as (Y/N) clung carefully to the rope, let the crew haul her down. He was standing below, on a small boat, feet extended so as to balance the weight of the vessel on the water. 

A duffel bag was strewn in the boat with clothes for the stay.

The sky was dark above them, and the ocean was black, starved of light, a matte void that neither wanted to be submerged in during the early hours of the morning.

 

“I don’t know why I had to wear a dress,” (Y/N) called, clenching her thighs tighter around the rope for fear of falling. “Now that I know what pants feel like, I don’t want to tie myself into a corset ever again.”

 

“I am sorry, dear, but Curacao as a nation is not as liberal as my ship. If they see a woman wearing trousers and an unbuttoned shirt, they might try to sell you off as a common hooker! Worse, stone you!  _ And _ me for allowing it,” Freddie laughed. “Don’t worry, you can still have fun looking like that.”

 

He reached out his arms, guided her waist until her feet reached the wood of the boat. The heels of her boots made her unsteady, and (Y/N) extended her arms to balance. 

She tottered for a moment, felt the rocking underneath her, then sat carefully, spun to face him. 

 

“Right,” said Freddie as he plopped down adjacent from her, pulled the oars up and began rowing. “When we get there, you’re my wife. Understand?”

 

“Am not!” (Y/N) objected. “Why not sister?”

 

“We don’t really look like we’re siblings,” Freddie smiled, gesturing at his face. “No, you’re my wife. Don’t misbehave for me, darling, not now.”

 

“And if I do, my _darling husband?”_ (Y/N) mocked, leaning forwards.

 

“Well then,” Freddie touched her nose, “I’ll have to have you punished!”

 

(Y/N) folded her arms. “A husband who  _ punishes  _ his wife? My, what kind of man are you?!”

 

“Punishment doesn’t have to be painful,” he purred, a wicked glint in his eye. Before he could elaborate, however, he chirped: “Besides, I know you’ll behave for me.”

 

“Go on then, husband. Row faster.” (Y/N) could barely contain the smile as she saw Freddie’s eyes light up, a smirk tug at his lips. He rolled his shoulders backwards, adjusted his posture, and complied.

(Y/N) looked back and saw the rest of Freddie’s crew lowering the anchor and clambering down the hull onto their own boats. No doubt they would follow Freddie to Curacao.

 

They reached Curacao’s shores as the sun rose above the horizon, and (Y/N) squinted when she saw the buildings rising off the mainland.

 

“Look!” she cried out, “look at that!”

 

Freddie turned around, smiled. “Fantastic!” he laughed. “How spectacular!”

 

The buildings of Curacao were Dutch, built in the colonial style, over a century old. Some of them were blinding white, and others had recently been painted with bright pastel colours - Freddie smiled with his eyes as he counted the colours; greens, yellows, pinks. A new development since his last visit. The town stood as a marker on the horizon; its colours beckoning as an outstretched hand to visitors, tourists, anyone who rowed towards its shores.

 

*

 

Freddie dropped the oars as the boat pulled up against the side of the wharf, standing to his full height to tie the rope around the wooden support. He knotted it tightly, jumped upwards onto the wharf and rolled onto the deck, kneeling with arms outstretched so he could help (Y/N) upwards, finding her footing. She was lighter than Freddie because of his ridiculous layered attire, and she found the wharf immediately. Freddie extended his arm and hauled the bag upwards, flung it over his shoulder.

 

“Right,” Freddie muttered as she grasped his shoulders and stood, waiting for him to rise to his full height. 

 

“Oh,” he blinked, shoving a hand in the pocket of his coat and pulling out a diamond ring. “This is yours, wife.”

 

Freddie took (Y/N)’s hand in his own, pushed the band onto her finger. 

 

“Where did you get this?” (Y/N) murmured, holding her hand outstretched to watch the morning light catch the stone, the diamond sparkling as the sun graced it. “Did you steal it?”

 

Freddie smiled. “No,  _ that _ I didn’t steal. It was my mother’s; a gift from her husband on their fifteenth anniversary. He saved every penny from selling spices to buy it for her. I carry it with me always, so don’t - under any circumstances - let it fall off your hand. If we get into trouble and I’m forced to make a split-second decision, I will cut your finger off your hand to save that diamond before I’ll save your life.”

 

(Y/N) shivered. “Understood.” The ring was a bit too tight, making her finger swell, but it was comfortably snug on the digit, the stone the centrepiece, encrusted with tiny diamonds. It was breathtakingly beautiful, and despite being held by her captor, it stirred a sense of honour within her. The ring looked good on her finger! Perhaps one day, she’d have one of her own. If she found the right person, that was.

 

“Freddie?”

 

The man stepped forwards, eyes wide. “Yes, darling?”

 

“What do you do… I mean… if we’re asked, how did you afford this ring? What’s your occupation?”

 

Freddie inhaled, blinked. “Mmmm, say that I run a little market, selling old clothes, perhaps with a friend. But in England, not in Curacao.”

 

(Y/N) nodded. “Right.” Freddie extended his arm and (Y/N) looped hers through it, and together they strolled down the wharf, reaching Curacao’s marketplace, where the remnants of mud on the street made (Y/N) wobble in her boots. 

She said nothing as Freddie lead her through the town, her eyes widening as people walked past them, in their strange outfits. Their clothes were much different to what she was used to seeing - England was cold, and the Georgian period attire was less colourful than the outfits that these settlers seemed to clothe themselves in. Many of them bore white flesh, probably Dutch or Spanish colonial settlers, but others were even darker than Freddie, their heritage distinctly Caribbean, and Freddie cleared his throat to indicate that (Y/N)’s mouth was hanging open. 

She closed it immediately.

 

“Never left England?” the man smiled.

 

(Y/N) shook her head. “No, this is… my first trip abroad.”

 

Freddie nodded. “Well then, we had better buy you a souvenir. Come on!” He grabbed her wrist and (Y/N) followed him through the street until they reached a marketplace. (Y/N) inhaled the smell of the food; all at once the aura was divine - she smelled cooked meat and fruit and spices, and Freddie seemed to rumble with excitement beside her.

 

“Curacao sells salt,” he explained, “that’s their main trade. Like my nation sold spices.” 

 

His eyes gazed over the stalls, focused on the bright colours of the tents, the way the fruits had been lined up in one stall: jackfruit, lime, ackee, sapodilla; if it wasn’t native to Curacao’s shores, no doubt it had been imported for sale. He wanted to try everything, all at once, but he had little money. 

 

“Look, look!” he broke his grip on (Y/N)’s arm and ran to another stall, pulling a large-brimmed hat from the hook it hung on and holding it up for her to view. The hat was grey, woollen, and had a large feather sewn into the brim, possibly an ostrich feather. (Y/N) smiled. It resembled the hat her father had bought her for her seventeenth birthday. From memory, she’d only worn it once, and it remained in her closet, safe with her dresses.

 

“I’ll buy it for you, dear,” Freddie decided, fishing into his pocket and pulling out copper coins, which he exchanged for the hat, spoke a few friendly words to the seller. “Here you are!”

He plonked the hat on (Y/N)’s head, adjusting it for her. “Now we really do look like a couple!”

 

He was right - he too had a large hat with a feather in it, and (Y/N) took the comment as a compliment. 

 

“Come on, let’s get something to eat!” Freddie clasped his hand in hers once more, and lead her through the marketplace, down to a small restaurant on the water’s edge. “You must have the fish, darling, I insist.”

 

(Y/N) obliged, followed Freddie to a small table at the restaurant, overlooking the cerulean shore. He pulled her chair out for her and (Y/N) hiked the hem of her dress to the side to sit comfortably on the chair, allowing the fabric to pool around her ankles once more as she relaxed against the frame. Freddie plopped down adjacent from her and flashed a wide smile.

 

Almost immediately, a small man with caramel skin was at the side of the table, a giant grin on his face as he recognised the traveller. 

 

“Freddie!” He exclaimed with a thick Carribean accent, and Freddie held out his hand and let the man place a kiss on his cheek. “Where have you been?”

 

“You know, darling. Out on the big blue.”

 

“You last visit me almost a year ago, no? Come sooner next time!” the man laughed in broken English. Freddie nodded. 

 

“(Y/N), this is my friend Bartel,” Freddie purred, and the new man’s face lit up as he gazed at the woman sitting opposite Freddie.

 

“Hallo, schoonheid!” Bartel exclaimed as he grappled for (Y/N)’s hand and pressed a kiss to her flesh. “Curacao welcomes a woman of such exquisite beauty!”

 

“Thank you,” (Y/N) bit her lip, her stomach flipping, and she was unsure whether it was with flattery or unease. 

 

“How you know Freddie?” Bartel laughed, and (Y/N) noticed Freddie subtly shifting his weight. She exhaled, drawing her left hand up. “He’s my husband!” Bartel’s eyes widened when he gazed upon the ring.

 

“Oh, Fred, you could buy all of Curacao with this ring!” He pulled (Y/N)’s hand closer towards him, inspected the diamond. 

 

“Well, if my wife ever wants to trade her ring for an island…” Freddie trailed off.

 

“So!” Bartel clapped his hands. “How you two meet? I say Freddie is a hard man to trap and a worthy equal, but (Y/N) seem too good for you!” He laughed then, and (Y/N) noticed the lines that appeared on his face; evident of a long and full life.

 

_ How did we meet?  _ Flashed in her mind, and immediately it occurred to her that she had asked Freddie for his occupation but not their backstory. How much did Bartel know about Freddie already? Would she tell a conflicting story if she made it up?

_ He kidnapped me,  _ ran through her thoughts, and (Y/N) felt immediately sick to her stomach.  _ I’m being held against my will and forced to lie. _

 

“We met eight months ago -” Freddie began “- in England. A small cove.”

 

“Yes,” (Y/N) stammered, meeting Freddie’s eyes. “He came to the tavern one night.”

 

“I was extremely tired,” Freddie continued, “but (Y/N) was outside the tavern, waiting…”

 

“Waiting for my  _ father _ , who… who was having a drink after a long day, in, uh, in -”

 

“- on the hill, herding the sheep! He’s a shepherd. And (Y/N) is his darling daughter and she was outside the tavern! Lucky me!” Freddie laughed, widening his eyes at (Y/N) as her mouth opened.

 

“Yes,” she played along. “I’m not allowed to go in,  _ naturally, _ because, well I’m a  _ woman _ … but… I thought I’d wait and walk home with my father. But… instead I saw Freddie walking  _ up _ to the tavern, and he was wearing such, uh, such marvelous, purple clothes, and a big hat.”

 

“And she liked me immediately,” he decided. “We began talking and really hit it off and then instead of going to the tavern I went home with her.” A sly grin.

 

“Only for dinner…”

 

“Yes! Yes, for dinner, and then… for some light study… and…”

 

“We very much enjoyed the potatoes, didn’t we, dear?” (Y/N) scoffed. 

 

“Yes!” Freddie smiled. “Little orange ones with salt and rosemary! Delicious!”

 

“And it rained, that night, a big storm so, so Freddie couldn’t leave…” (Y/N) felt the sweat running down her forehead as Bartel’s gaze flicked back and forth between them, but there was an expression of joyous mischief pulling Freddie’s lips upwards, which she knew was mirrored on her own face.

 

“So I stayed the night, in the spare room,” Freddie elaborated. “And (Y/N) stayed up and we talked for hours and hours, and the rest is history.”

 

(Y/N) let out a sigh of relief as Bartel’s grin reached his ears. 

 

“True lovebirds!” he exclaimed. “What a fantastic beginning! I hope you find your happy ending! No doubt you want the fish, Freddie?”

 

“Yes,” he squealed. “The fish! It’s simply the best - I’ve been telling (Y/N) all about it, haven’t I, darling?!” 

 

“Certainly,” (Y/N) nodded. “We’d love the fish.”

 

Bartel clapped again and promised the meal swiftly, before dashing off.

Freddie let out a giant laugh that shook his entire body and made him keel over to let out the heaves. (Y/N) smiled, leaning backwards into the chair.

 

“Sheep?” she giggled. “Sheep, really?”

 

“What did you want me to say, dear?  At least I said sheep and not camels!”

 

Then (Y/N) laughed, too, let the laughter overtake her body. It was the first time she’d truly felt joy in what seemed like years, and for a moment, it was just her, and a strange man, sitting at a little table on a foreign island, letting the world go by. She could get used to this, (Y/N) mused. Travelling to new places, experiencing the cultures of foreign shores, laughing with someone who was kind. Although she had no illusions that Freddie was nothing more than an acquaintance, there was a pang of bitterness that pierced her heart and whispered  _ in another lifetime, the man sitting across from you would be your friend, or perhaps your lover, and you would trust him completely. _

And though she stomached the dull ache and pushed the tears back down inside her, the ring glistening on her finger was a resounding beacon of what could - and could never - be. 

 

*

 

Freddie had been right - the fish was the best thing (Y/N) had ever tasted. It was Pterois, Bartel told her - “lionfish” in the common tongue, cooked with spices she’d never heard of, let alone eaten, and the white meat fell apart in her mouth and seemed to melt against her tongue. Freddie had ordered them Stoba and then asked her to guess the meat just by the smell; the rich aroma of slow cooked roast paired with the papaya and potatoes made her salivate. On board The Mercury the only edible options were raw vegetables or cheese, or perhaps beans and sea biscuit. Compared to Curacao’s delicacies, the seafaring tidbits were like slops. 

Here where the buildings were vibrant, the food matched the atmosphere. Everything was colourful, everything was spicy, and the people brought so much of their own personality to the isle that it seemed to lift from the very sea and hover above the horizon, halfway between the ocean and the heavens.

(Y/N) and Freddie spent the rest of the day wandering around the island - he bought her a plantain, let her walk along the shore, dig her feet into the sand as she paced up and down the bound, left footprints behind her - and Freddie knew as he watched her that she was thinking of Friary Cove, of her home, the beautiful place that he’d stolen her from. 

Guilt gnawed at his conscience, but he pushed it away with a frown. He was only doing what he needed to do, what was necessary. She was just one woman in a world of many. 

 

Freddie had left her on the shore when (Y/N) turned back to look for him. She saw him not too long after, at a fair distance, whispering something closely to what seemed to be a Mediterranean merchant, and as (Y/N) froze to watch them, Freddie pulled a coin purse out of his pocket and handed it to the man, before sneaking a glance over his shoulder.

 

*

 

“Come on, May!” Roger called. “You sure as hell can’t get up a hull but you should be able to slide down one.”

 

“Yes, Lord,” Brian grunted as he squeezed his thighs tighter against the rope, cried out as Netley dropped it lower abruptly, laughing as Brian clung to it. Brian closed his eyes, exhaled, let the rope swing with his weight. He looked down briefly, saw Roger staring up at him, standing on the boat, a scowl on his face.

 

“Don’t you dare puke on me, May,” Roger warned. “Get down here, and let’s go! I’m hungry! I want a hot meal, and a drink, and a woman’s lips on me. Preferably all three before the sun comes up! Hurry, hurry!”

 

Brian exhaled, slowly slid down the rope, until his feet were on the boat and he was face-to-face with Roger, balancing evenly. Even under the dark canopy of the sky, Brian could see the pirate’s hooded eyes, his long lashes and the way his plump lips pulled upwards, like he had a permanent beginning of a smile.

 

“Yes, I have a face,” Roger chuckled, and Brian blinked. 

 

“Sorry, I…”

 

“Don’t worry. It’s not everyday you come close to a pirate. You’re just like all of them; wanting a look. Shame, not many survive for too long. But uh… this  _ is _ what I look like. You have been on my ship, no?”

 

“Yes,” Brian swallowed. “Sorry.”

 

“You can row, May,” Roger stated, sitting in the boat and spreading his legs, adjusting against the wood. He pulled the oars up to his chest, tossed them at Brian, who caught them.

 

_ I rowed last time,  _ Brian sighed to himself. Yet, he sat opposite the pirate and followed the order.

 

“Where are we?”

 

“I don’t know.” Roger shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I never worry where I am or where I’m going, only what I’m getting when I arrive.” 

 

Brian nodded, saw Roger close his eyes. 

 

“Oh,” the blonde muttered as he dug into his pocket and pulled out a bag of coins. “This is for you.”

 

“What?” Brian took the bag, inspected the coins. “This is real money… what am I to do with this?”

 

“Fool!” Roger growled. “What would you normally do with money? Buy a drink, buy some food, pay a whore to show you a good time, or get some new boots! I don’t care! But any change you have, you give back to me when we re-board The Cross, understand?”

 

Brian nodded. “This is… this is your money?”

 

“Your first time out at sea and all you brought was your books and the clothes on your back. No money of your own. I don’t suppose you’re the type of man to walk onto shore and pick a pocket?” 

 

Brian shook his head, and Roger continued. “But I am. So this is yours, for now. It’ll run out, depending on how much fun you have. Once it’s gone, you don’t get any more from me.”

 

“Alright,” Brian muttured. “Thank you.”

 

“God, you’re so  _ polite _ ,” Roger growled. “Tell me to fuck myself for once in your life!”

 

“And risk dying?” Brian laughed. “Nice try, my Lord.”

 

Roger pursed his lips. The boy was smart, that much was sure. Even spending time on a pirate ship had not yet corrupted him.

 

“May,” he began, in his honey-tone purr, “when we get to shore, will you come somewhere with me?”

 

Brian blinked. What was the pirate captain up to, now? He bit his lip. “Where?”

 

“A nice establishment,” Roger muttered. “Where you’ll get to have a warm bed to sleep in.”

 

“I would like a nice bed,” Brian smiled.  _ Sheets! Fresh, clean sheets! And a pillow to rest his weary head!  _ Ah, how long it seemed to have been. 

 

“Great,” Roger smiled, “you come with me, then, once we get to shore.”

 

Brian nodded, rowed harder, the dull ache in his arms that he had felt the first time now drowned out by the muscles that he had developed hanging the sails on Roger’s ship. 

 

*

 

When they reached the shore, Roger waited for the rest of his crew, gathered them. 

 

“Seventy two hours,” he barked. “Then we leave without you. Go, be merry! Get drunk, fat bastards!” 

 

The crew immediately cheered, and Netley clapped a hand on Brian’s shoulder, “come have a drink with us,” on his lips. 

 

“I’m… I’m going with the Captain,” Brian muttured, and Netley raised his eyebrows, albeit silently, and nodded, leaving the two men on the shore as the crew walked towards the nearest town.

 

“You don’t like to go with your crew?” Brian tested.

 

Roger shrugged. “We’re not friends. They work for me, that’s all - why would they want to drink with me?”

 

“Why not?” Brian offered, and Roger met his eyes, blinked a few times, his expression blanketed by confusion. 

 

“Come,” he decided. “Let’s find a meal.”

 

Brian followed Roger as they climbed up the shore, their boots finding the path and following it in the opposite direction to the way the crew had gone. The gravel crunched beneath them and Roger remained silent. Brian opened his mouth a few times to make conversation but decided against it, instead focusing on the clear night - he could see all the stars tonight! There were no clouds to obscure them, and he fell behind a few times with his neck craned upwards, trying to count the constellations on long fingers.

The lights from the nearest town were visible before the two men heard the sounds of life. The town was small, but had cobbled streets, and buildings with spyres, and Brian figured they might be in the Netherlands; although he spoke no Dutch or Frisian, the buildings that he saw matched the images he’d seen sketched in some of his reference books back home. 

 

Roger strolled to a building that was well-lit, waltzed inside as if he was twelve-foot high and the landlord, and Brian shuffled in after him, knitting his fingers together. Roger found the bar, pulled a few coins out of his pocket and handed them over as Brian looked around the tavern; it resembled the one back home; warm, yellow-toned from the fire that burned in the corner, was scattered with men drinking and laughing in European accents. 

 

“May,” Roger called, and Brian walked to him, took a seat beside the pirate at the bar. Roger pushed a pint towards him, dipped his head. 

 

“What is this?” Brian coughed as he took a sip. 

 

Roger shrugged. “The barman said it’s called  _ Jenever.  _ Drink away.”

 

Within minutes, Roger had downed half his drink, his lips shining with the alcohol. Brian held his glass closely to his chest, let the warmth of the liquor make him buzz. 

When Brian looked up, there was a man delivering two plates of hot food, placing one plate in front of Roger and the other infront of him. 

Roger dug in immediately, eating with his hands, ripping a potato open and shoving it into his mouth like he was starving, biting off the end of a fat sausage before he’d swallowed the vegetable. 

Brian blinked - he had the same meal; potatoes, a sausage, green sprouts and a bed of brown rice with two dates on the edge of the plate. Taylor must’ve bought it for him, with his own money.

Roger stopped eating when he saw Brian staring at the meal. Brian noticed the pirate eyeing him up and down. Immediately Roger’s hand shot out and he grabbed the sausage off the taller man’s plate. 

 

“Hey!” Brian yelled.

 

“Do you want it or not?” Roger growled. 

 

“Yes, I would like it…” Brian licked his lips.

 

“Too bad,” Roger snapped, shoving the meat into his mouth, chewing obnoxiously. “Too slow.”

 

“God…” Brian whispered under his breath, and Roger snickered.

 

Brian dipped his fingers into the rice, pushed a chunk of it into his mouth. It was warm, soft, fluffy, and spiced like nothing he’d ever tried - and before long he realised his stomach was rumbling and he found himself shovelling the food into his mouth with his hands just like the blonde.

The smell of the food made his mouth water and he bit his cheeks a few too many times with eagerness as he chewed and swallowed the meal down, alternating between eating and gulping down the alcohol in his pint glass.

Roger burped when he was finished and held the plate up to his mouth, licked it clean, drank the rest of his Jenever with his eyes closed, salvaging every drop.

 

When they were finished, Brian met Roger’s eyes and nodded, a small gesture of thanks, which the pirate returned. The atmosphere was still warm, but Roger exhaled and murmured something to the bartender, who leaned in closer to the blonde and spoke something to him.

 

Roger grabbed Brian on the shoulder. “Come on, then,” he muttered, “let’s go and get you that bed, shall we?” 

 

Brian thanked the bartender for his service, followed Roger out into the brisk air. It must’ve almost been midnight by now, he mused, and if the Captain had given his crew seventy two hours, Brian wanted to get a good sleep so he could be up in the morning, walking around the streets of the town.

 

“God, I’m aching for a smoke,” Roger whined as the air blew cool against his face, chewed the nail of his forefinger as he strode through the streets of the city.

 

Brian counted the steps before they arrived at the next destination; four hundred and seventy two steps. The building was old, seemingly abandoned down a sidestreet. From the outside it would seem unoccupied, save for the chatter that came from within its walls. Roger opened the door and Brian followed him inside, pulling the door closed behind him. 

 

*

 

(Y/N) sat on the edge of the bed in the little room Freddie had rented for the night; his room was against the hall, but she had a window overlooking the ocean. 

Her feet were sore, the balls of her feet throbbing with deep pain as she took the boots off, rubbed her fingers over them to soothe them. The ring from Freddie still glistened on her finger, and as (Y/N) took her dress off and stepped into the nightgown she’d packed with her, shivering as she rubbed her arms to combat the cool air, her stomach flipped with unease. 

How long did Freddie intend to stay on Curacao? Why did he insist she pretend to be his wife in some crude roleplay? Who was the man she’d seen him talking to? And what were the rest of his crew up to? She hadn’t seen them since they arrived onshore - they’d disappeared almost like shadows, left her alone with this man. And if Freddie really wanted to trade her for his freedom, why did he laugh along with her, look at her fondly? The questions made her dizzy, and (Y/N) sat down to avoid passing out. She had to get answers - or get away, by whatever means necessary - or possible.

 

(Y/N)’s fist rapped against the wood of Freddie’s door. There was a scuffle, and then Freddie opened it slightly, saw who was on the other side. “Come in,” left his lips and (Y/N) walked past him into the warm room, noticed a candle on the bedside table. Freddie was in his nightshirt, and barefoot, but he still had his trousers on. (Y/N) sat on the edge of his bed and Freddie joined her tentatively, blinking.

 

“Are you alright?” he murmured. “Do you want to swap rooms? Is there a draft?”

 

“No,” (Y/N) muttured, her throat drying. “I… that’s not why I’m here.”

 

“Why are you here?” Freddie raised his eyebrows, noticed the ring still on (Y/N)’s finger, glittering in the candlelight.

 

Leaning closer, (Y/N) cupped Freddie’s face in her hand, ran a thumb down his cheek. She saw him blink with shock, as she shuffled closer.

Her nose brushed against his and his hand curled itself into her hair as she pressed her lips against his, tasted rum, licked along his lower lip. Freddie parted his lips, and (Y/N) deepened the kiss.

 

(Y/N)’s shaky hand went to Freddie’s crotch, her fingers gentle. Freddie gasped against her lips, pushed her away, breath coming out in long pants.

 

“No,” he growled. “What are you doing?”

 

“You’re my husband,” (Y/N) choked out, “at least for tonight. Well, I want to… I want to know what it’s like.”

 

Freddie frowned. “But… that’s pretend, (Y/N)! What are you going on about?”

 

“I want to touch you,” (Y/N) breathed. “I don’t want to die before I experience this.”

 

Freddie shook his head. “I will not let you use your body like that. I know what you’re doing. Sleeping with me won’t save you.”

 

“Will you consider it?” she prompted, undoing a button of his nightshirt, brushing against his chest with long fingers. 

 

Freddie took her hand in his own. “No, darling. I know you don’t actually want me. And really, it’s fun for my ego, but you shouldn’t offer that much of yourself.”

 

(Y/N) deflated, pulled her hand away from him. 

 

“If you change your mind, my dear,” Freddie murmured, his voice soft, “I could make it good for you. I promise. But only if you really want it.”

 

“I do,” her voice cracked. “If Innswood is as cruel as you say he is, no doubt he’ll just take me for his own. But you’re kind… and I’d rather it this way. On  _ my _ terms.”  _ The lesser of two evils. _

 

She kissed him again, and Freddie kissed her back. His mouth was hot, and he stifled a moan as she sat on his knee, buried her hands in his ebony locks. Her fingers moved and undid the buttons of his shirt and his hands found her hips, grasped tightly. Then, she was untying the string of his trousers, tugging them down his pelvis, clasping his knee with her hand as she re-adjusted her position to sit on his lap. (Y/N) moaned against his lips and rocked gently against his crotch, her fingers tightening around his hair. His tongue slipped inside her mouth, and (Y/N) moaned as his mouth moved naturally with hers, the two of them finding a natural rhythm, their kisses becoming gradually deeper and more passionate. 

 

Freddie pulled her face off his, then, stared into her eyes, saw them welling with tears. She looked upwards to halt them from escaping her eyes, but she couldn’t stop them, and they began rolling down her cheeks. A soft smile tugged at his lips.

 

“(Y/N), you’re very brave,” he reassured. “I admire your courage. Don’t make this decision for yourself, darling. I’m not the one for you. Not intimately, anyways. I know you’re scared.”

 

She’d blown it now. (Y/N) cried, a growl coming from her throat. “I hate you,” she rasped.

 

“I’d rather you hate me for not doing this, than you hate me for doing it,” Freddie murmured.

 

(Y/N) scrunched her hand into a fist. For a moment, the thought of striking Freddie across the face with the ring flashed in her mind. The diamond would tear his face, draw blood, teach him a lesson, even perhaps paint a white scar permanently across his smooth caramel skin. But her stomach swirled with malaise and in the moment, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. 

Freddie cried out as (Y/N) instead dug her fingers into his shoulders and rocked him forcefully, a growl leaving her throat.

 

“Fuck you, Freddie,” her voice came out as a hiss. “Fuck you and what you’ve made me into.”

She slumped forwards, and Freddie held her upright, her body succumbing to sobs. He held her against his chest, his jaw tightening, and when she had finished crying he lead her back to her own room and shut the door, blew the candle out on his bedside table and stared at the ceiling in the darkness for what felt like hours, exhaling deeply as the darkness wrapped around him, coaxed him to succumb to the familiar comfort of sleep. 


	10. a message from John (on behalf of @alcxhardy)

_ 27th february _

_ jrd _

 

_ Dearest who reads this, _

_ I see you’ve stumbled upon my personal ship’s log, but perhaps it is a blessing that i thought best to write this down upon the possibility of your finding it. Certainly in the future reading someone’s diary will cross your mind but not be acted upon. _

 

_ Our author, L, has asked that i transfer a message. While our story is very much still in the process of being transcribed, she would ask your forgiveness for the delay in uploading, due to unforeseeable circumstances. she hoped this would not occur, but alas we know that life has its own course, often separate from our own desires.  _

_ Much has happened since she last put words down on paper, including the rejection of an application to study further at university and a failure of a simulated test before she may apply to commandeer a motor vehicle on her own.  _

_ Furthermore, the excruciating heat of the summer season has not lent itself well to the mood. _

 

_ Alas, there will most likely be more elapsed time between now and when the next chapter is ready, but for now, both L and I ask for your patience and understanding, and wish you a good night. We are all alright, safe for now upon our respective vessels at sea. The waters are calm for you also, reader, i hope. _

 

_ With blessings, _

 

_ John Richard Deacon, RN Cdr.  _


	11. X. Simone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Ok, I apologise so hard for the delay! Is anyone still reading? lmao. From now on, no promises. We die on our swords like men & post chapters sporadically without a schedule. 
> 
> As I mentioned in Chapter 9's notes, uh, I applied to go back to uni & do another Bachelor and I got rejected :'( BUT i applied to do a Masters instead and got in!! My Masters is in Creative Writing, Editing & Publishing! So, I've been putting my skills to good use writing this fic. I go back in July, so I have a bit of time to write in between now and then. 
> 
> I was going to delete John's ship-log but you know what? I'm keeping it. It adds character to this fic. Thank you for your continued patience xx
> 
> _____
> 
> This chapter takes place immediately after Chapter 9 concludes. I've refined it over and over so hopefully you guys love it.  
> Also I'm so sorry for a lack of John in this fic so far: it's not because I dislike him or anything, I just worry I can't do him justice, but he's still very very important to me <3
> 
>  
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter:  
> underage prostitutes (i guess?) + drinking/intoxication, heavy petting (?), (singular) masturbation. There's no sex with minors in this chapter, so fear not. 
> 
> Enjoy xx

The whorehouse was cold, draughty, and Brian frowned as he realised where Roger had lead him. His heart pounded - he’d never been to a place like this before. Friary Cove was a quiet town - of course, there’d been stories of young men travelling to the closest city to experience the brothels but Brian had never made his way there. His hand found the blonde’s shoulder, pulled him around sharply so they locked eyes; piercing blue and seething hazel, barely visible in the dim light.

 

“Why have you brought me here?” Brian growled. “To this filthy place?”

 

Roger raised his eyebrows. “Gotta get you that warm bed, no?” The smirk on his face washed away when Brian shot him a glare. “Oh, for God’s sake, May, you saw this coming, surely. Stop looking like a fucking wet rat. At least be thankful I didn’t abandon you.”

 

“I don’t like it, My Lord,” Brian swallowed, shaking his head. 

 

Roger’s lip twitched as he shuffled closer to Brian, saw him blink with unease as their bodies got closer. Without warning, his hand brushed over Brian’s crotch, fingers dancing gently on the fabric, eliciting a gasp from the taller man as Brian’s eyes fluttered shut and he batted the pirate’s hand away, to no avail.

Roger laughed, a guttural chuckle as Brian fell apart under his touch. 

 

“That’s what I thought. Don’t fool yourself,” Roger whispered, pressing closer. “You’re a man, just like me. You  _ need _ sex, you hunger for it. It’s the way we’re wired, May. If you don’t get it soon, you’ll go  _ insane.  _ Trust me.”

 

Brian grasped Roger’s wrist, dug slender fingers in, wrenched the pirate’s hand off of him, spoke nothing as he held his gaze, his jaw clenching. Perhaps the pirate was right: it would be easy, to lose himself in this building - to let his carnality take over, spend the night with a woman - any nameless woman, to finally relieve the pressure he’d been under for so long, to thrust into her body hard and fast and empty himself inside her without consequence, even to cry out in the darkness. Or to feel her lips on him, her mouth warm and wet. Or maybe her hand, touching him the way he liked it, bringing him to orgasm with gentle rubs of her soft fingertips, jerking and stroking until he released.

The thought made Brian shiver. Yet, his appetite did not stir in this dark building, where half-clothed women sat waiting, and the wind blew in through the holes in the walls, making everything cold, where Roger’s breath was against his ear, and his bad intentions made a sour taste tug at Brian’s throat.

 

Brian pulled away, and Roger clapped him on the shoulder, guided him to the nearest chair, sat him down. 

 

“I’ll find you a nice girl,” the pirate promised. “Someone gentle, who’ll go slowly with you,” he laughed, “although, I wouldn’t put it past you to be really rough” - Roger glanced at the red marks on his wrist from where Brian’s fingers had dug in, pulling his hand away - “You might surprise yourself.”

 

Brian stuck his tongue out at Roger once the pirate had turned away from him, made his way over to a gaggle of women who straightened their posture as soon as they saw him, like he was Adonis come to whirl them away to a palace of pleasure. 

At once, two women followed him, glasses of rum in their hands, and Roger winked at Brian as he plopped down on a chaise and gulped down the liquid while the prostitute perched herself beside him.

The remaining woman tottered towards Brian, handed him the glass, to which he thanked her and took a tentative sip. She was pretty, there was no denying that, and from what he could see in the dim light she appeared to be youthful, perhaps a few years younger than he. Her dress was tight fitting and Brian noticed the gentle curve of her breasts and the silhouette of her hips through the fabric. 

She crouched forwards, tilted her head to look at him as her fingers danced on his knee. 

A shy “hello,” left her lips, and Brian returned the greeting, yet, he found it difficult to meet her gaze, instead distracting himself by focusing on the pirate captain sitting opposite him - although Roger was certainly not thinking about Brian.

 

Roger’s tongue was already in the woman’s mouth, sucking and biting her lips vigorously, his hands grazing her lower back as she unbuttoned his shirt and brushed her fingers down his torso, grinding against his crotch. His hands undid his belt and then ruffled through her undergarments.   _ No shame _ , Brian mused. Seeing Roger in such a vulnerable position made his stomach swirl, and he felt, for a moment, that his gaze was intrusive, an unwanted presence, that if he continued to stare, he’d see too much of the pirate. Swallowing, Brian dragged his gaze away, took another swig of the rum.

 

Brian sat gingerly as the woman wrapped her body around his, traced the veins in his hands with her index finger, began to press her lips against his neck. He resisted her touch for a moment, then felt the heat of desire pull at his skin, let himself lean into her touch. He was already dizzy from the rum, and his heart was pounding against his chest as his eyes fluttered shut, felt her mouth move against his flesh, like fire. His mind raced as her hand pressed against his trousers, the touch almost making him flinch. The sensation made him weak, and all of a sudden, he was glad he was sitting down already. His legs spread automatically, a small gasp escaping from his lips. No doubt, the whore could taste the desire on him, feel him swell under her fingers. 

She crawled closer, pulled his face towards her. Brian moaned as their lips made contact, and before he could stop himself he was kissing her back, feeling the way her mouth moved against his in hot desperation, the softness of her lips and the way his tongue curled into her mouth, made her moan.

He reached to put his drink down, and the woman ran her hands through his hair, tousled the curls as she climbed upon his lap, pressed her body against his.

Brian’s head rocked backwards, his breath coming out sharply as her fingers toyed with him through the fabric. 

 

“Do you wanna go to my room?” she purred, and Brian shot up almost immediately.

 

She pulled him by the hand, lead him through the golden haze of the establishment, up the rickety stairs to the second floor. When the door of her room was closed, the woman pushed him down onto her bed, straddled him, their lips connecting again. 

Brian felt shivers run down his back as she moaned into his mouth, undid the tie of his pants and slid a hand behind them.

 

“What’s your name?” Brian breathed.

 

“What do you want it to be?” her response rolled off her tongue loosely.

 

Brian pulled away. “What is it, really?”

 

“Simone,” she replied, smiling softly. “Nobody ever asks me that. There’s a first time for everything; it must be true.”

 

“Simone,” Brian whispered. “Are you drunk?” 

 

“Of course!” she laughed. “That’s what makes it fun for both of us.”

 

Brian swallowed, felt the taste in his mouth sour. Hearing her gentle voice sent shivers down his spine. “Simone, how old are you?”

 

She giggled, waved her hand in the air, pressed her lips against his neck again.

 

“Simone! How old are you?” Brian took her by the shoulders, held her firmly in front of him, met her eyes.

 

Simone swallowed. “I’m sixteen,” she complied. 

 

Brian bit his lip. She was still a child.

 

Simone’s hand made contact with his swollen skin, stroked softly with her forefinger, and Brian reached for her.

 

“Stop,” he gulped. “Don’t.”

 

“Don’t you want me, baby?” she cooed. “I can tell you do; your body is giving you away.”

 

She was right: Brian’s body was reacting rapidly to her touch, but knowing she was a drunk teenager trying to aid his arousal made his stomach clench.

 

“Simone,” he tried, “have you worked every day this week?”

 

“Of course!”

 

“Are you tired?” his voice was softer now, encouraging.

 

“No,” she smiled, “never too tired to help you.”

 

“Stop, please,” Brian was firm, clutched her again. “You’re a child.”

 

Simone frowned, blinked. “I know what I’m doing. I’m used to it. Let me be good to you. You won’t regret it, I promise.”

 

Brian inhaled. “Take the night off.”

 

She stared at him. “Are you sure?”

 

Brian nodded. “Have a rest.”

 

“Don’t you want someone to help you with this?” she tugged on his pants, squeezed, and Brian felt as though his breath had been knocked out of him as the pleasure from her touch burned in his crotch.

 

“I appreciate it, but honestly, I really don’t need someone else to get off,” he muttered, “and knowing you’re sixteen wouldn’t make me feel very good about myself, in the end.”

 

Simone smiled. “Do you just want to kiss?”

 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Brian swallowed. “Perhaps you can just tell me about your day?”

 

Simone pursed her lips, rolled to the side of him so she was no longer sitting against his thighs. 

 

“I didn’t do very much.”

 

“That’s alright,” he encouraged. “Do you want to sleep?”

 

“No,” she decided. “I’m not tired.”

 

“What if we went outside and had a walk?”

 

“Really?” Simone smiled, and her eyes lit up. “Will we be safe?”

 

“Of course,” Brian nodded. “We can have a look at the stars, if you’d like?”

 

“Yes! I like the stars!” Simone shrieked. “I don’t often get to see them, because I’m working.”

 

“Well, tonight we’ll go and have a look at them, ok?” Brian took her hand and held it gently. “I’m Brian.”

 

“Nice to meet you, Brian. Are… are you still going to pay me for my time?” 

 

“Oh… yes, of course,” Brian murmured. “You must let me know how much I owe you.”

 

“You’re English, aren’t you? So...Ten pence,” Simone smiled. “That’d be nice.”

 

“Well, how about I give you a pound?” Brian offered. “I have one, you see, but not many other coins.”

 

“Oh… a pound could buy you almost anything you wanted, with any woman here.”

 

“Will it buy you for a few nights?” Brian swallowed.

 

“Yes, at least four or five,” Simone smiled. “You _ do _ want to sleep with me, then, eventually?”

 

“No, I want to buy your freedom,” Brian admitted. “I can’t afford for you to go free, but, I can perhaps give you a few nights off, even though I have to leave when my friend says so.”

 

“You’d do that for me?” Simone’s eyes glazed over, and for a moment, Brian saw them well with tears, before she composed herself.

 

“Yes,” he promised. “I’d do that.”

 

“Thank you,” Simone breathed, “nobody has ever shown me such kindness.”

 

Brian nodded, and Simone rolled out of the bed. 

“Do you, uh… do you want to take care of that before we go for a walk?” She gestured at his crotch where his pants were tenting, and Brian blushed bright red. “I can wait outside the door while you do.”

 

“Uh… no, better not. Um… it’ll go away.” He choked out, covered his groin with his hands, felt his face stain bright red. “I’m sorry, I…”

 

“It’s ok,” she reassured him. “I’ve seen one before, it’s not a big deal.”

 

Brian laughed at that, the smile reaching to his eyes. At least she had a sense of humour, he mused. Simone was patient, made soft conversation with Brian as he waited it out, sitting with his legs overhanging her bed. After a few minutes, he squeezed her hand. 

 

“Right,” his breath was hoarse. “Shall we go outside now?”

 

“Yes!” the teenager laughed, jumping up immediately. Brian followed her out of the room and down the stairs, but then she pulled him through a separate hallway that he hadn’t noticed before. It was dark, but Simone seemed to know the way; she disappeared through a separate door for a moment and returned with half a loaf of bread under her arm, a finger pressed to her lips as a signal not to tell anyone of the theft. Then she was off again, and Brian followed her through the corridor until they reached a door. Simone quickly opened it and slipped out, beckoning for Brian to follow. Once they were out in the cool air, Simone laughed. 

 

“This is the best!” she giggled. “Come!” At once she took his hand and pulled him through the streets - there were lights still on, and although the restaurants were closing for the night, people still wandered around, walking with canes or clutching loved ones closely, and somewhere in the distance Brian could hear the faint trill of music. 

 

“There, we blend in quite well with the crowd, don’t we?” Simone smiled, and Brian noticed crooked teeth. “I could be your wife.”

 

“Perhaps my little sister,” he laughed, digging an elbow into her ribs. 

 

“Are you married, then, Brian?” Her question was simple, but Brian knew the subtext. How many men came into brothels seeking something other than the familiarity they left at home? How unhappy did a man have to be to seek services from another woman? Or, perhaps, how desperate? 

 

“No,” he murmured. “No, haven’t got around to it yet. Too much to do.”

 

“Do you want one?” Simone smiled, her plump cheeks stained red, and Brian laughed as she lead him along the streets, further through the town. “Want to  _ kiss _ her, and  _ touch _ her, and -”

 

“That’ll do,” he chimed as the two of them laughed together. “But yes; one day, perhaps.”

 

“You’re sweet, Brian,” the teenager sighed, “sweeter than any man I’ve ever met that’s come through that door. I wish I met you under different circumstances.”

 

Brian’s stomach sunk; his fingers were still interlocked with hers, their bodies still swaying together as they strolled in-time.

 

They reached a grassy knoll after a quarter of an hour, just far enough away to overlook the city’s golden glow. Brian sat down, stretching his legs out, and Simone fell beside him, pulling apart the bread and handing him a chunk. Brian ate gently, noticed the weight of Simone’s hand on his knee, and the way she snuggled closer to him as the wind blew softly around them. 

 

Brian’s gaze tilted upwards; it was a cloudless night - perfect to see the stars. The Netherlands - like England - remained in the Northern hemisphere, so Brian knew that he would be able to see the same constellations here as he did from Friary Cove. 

 

“Okay,” Brian purred. “Let’s start with an easy one.” He scanned the stars for a moment, then smiled, pointed upwards. “Look - there: see those stars that look like a squashed square with a tail? That’s Ursa Minor.” 

 

Simone smiled. “A tail?” She giggled, and Brian’s heart fluttered.

 

“Yeah…” he met her eyes, saw the awe in them, her soft blinks. “Okay, see that bright one, right up there above us?” he continued. “That’s Sirius, or… Alpha Canis Majoris, the brightest star.” 

 

“It’s beautiful,” Simone whispered. “Imagine seeing it up close.”

 

“Yeah, that’d be amazing,” Brian mused. “Maybe one day we will be able to. Well, not us. But who knows how things will change. Perhaps years from now, our descendants will be able to go there.”

 

“ _ Go _ there?”

 

“Well, we built ships to sail the seas, didn’t we?” Brian explained. “Maybe, just maybe, one day people will be so smart that we’ll build something to enable us to go up there.” 

 

“That’d be a great day,” Simone smiled. “Would you go?”

 

“I don’t know,” Brian murmured. “What would we find up there? It’s so vast. It seems we haven’t yet discovered all that we can about our own earth, our own place here. What can the stars answer? What could they tell us?”

 

“Maybe that’s why we look up,” Simone smiled, and Brian nodded. 

 

“Maybe.”

 

*

 

“One day, when I’m old enough,” Simone stuttered, as they walked hand-in-hand back through her doorway, their feet quiet on the floorboards, “will you come back here? I just… I really like you and… I feel dizzy when we touch… I keep thinking of taking you to bed with me. I’m sorry I couldn’t be enough for you right now.”

 

“You are enough,” Brian grabbed her face between his hands and held her. “Not just for me, or for anyone who comes in here. You  _ are  _ enough. Do you understand me?”

 

The teen nodded, eyes fixed on the ground. “But you still won’t come back for me.”

 

“I won’t come back to have sex with you, when I deem you old enough for it to be acceptable to me, no,” he bit his lip. “You deserve better than that. And frankly, that would be disgusting on my behalf.”

 

“Shame,” she smiled. “You’re very sexy; and in a different life, maybe I would’ve been able to touch you. I know you’d be a good lover, Brian. I envy the woman that gets to have all of you.”

 

Brian squeezed her hand. “Simone, you’re making it hard for me to walk away from you,” he breathed, felt the crush of his lungs. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

 

Simone’s lips were upon his before he could say no, and when he realised he allowed her to kiss him, carefully, gentle, with lips parted. His eyes fluttered shut and he considered that perhaps this was the first time Simone was kissing someone she liked; and perhaps he owed her that. The sickly feeling of desire tugged at him again, and Brian held her gently against him as he kissed her back.

He lost track of time, caught in her grip, his fingers drawing soft circles on her back, her lips moving against his, kissing him tenderly again and again, and Brian blushed when he heard a moan slip from his mouth. 

When he opened his eyes, Simone’s met his, and a smile was on her lips.

 

“You’re a good man, Brian,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

 

Brian nodded. “Sleep well, tonight.”

 

“You’re welcome to share the bed with me,” she offered. 

 

“No,” he whispered, “it’s yours. I’m too big.”

 

“Don’t you trust me?” Simone raised an eyebrow. “You know I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to.”

 

“It’s me I don’t trust,” he purred back. “I snore, and I hog blankets!”

 

Simone laughed, grinned a toothy smile. “Alright. But if you get cold, you can come and sleep beside me.” She took his hand and squeezed it. 

 

Brian nodded, smiled back. Simone passed him a spare pillow.

He pulled away, slid off her bed and took his coat off, placed it at the far wall of her room, adjusted the pillow so he’d made a makeshift bed upon the floorboards.

 

“Goodnight, Bri,” Simone whispered, met his gaze.

 

“Goodnight,” he muttered back, watched as she blew out the candle beside her bed and turned over. 

 

*

 

Brian made sure Simone was asleep long before he found the quietest corner of the room and sat down, pressed his back against it. He plunged his hand into his pants and felt a wave of shame pour over him for a moment. But he was desperate, tonight more than ever, and the hammock of Taylor’s ship had so far proven challenging for Brian to rest easily. Every night, the rocking of the ship on the sea threatened to turn him out of his hammock onto the floor. Needless to say, it was difficult to keep your balance if you were occupied with other activities. 

Brian kept his pants on, pushed them down slightly so the band was around his knees instead of his waist, exposing his thighs to the draft that was coming in from the window in Simone’s room. His breath caught in his throat as his hand slid in between his legs, stroked up and down, his cock growing rapidly as his eyes closed and his lips parted. The goosebumps on his legs soon disappeared as the heat of arousal spread through his body, burning in his pelvis, and Brian let his head tilt backwards and rest against the wall. His legs spread further and his hand sped up; the potential of getting caught in the act made him nervous: tonight he couldn’t take his time, but it’d been such a while since the last time he’d touched himself _properly_ that his body craved the friction, hard and fast. 

Brian groaned, covered his mouth with his spare hand to keep from waking up Simone, pressed his palm harder against his face as he let a long moan slip from his lips. 

His hips bucked upwards, his toes curling as he lost himself in the sensation, his mouth hanging open. 

It was over too quickly for Brian to be satisfied; he came with a grunt, panted as he spilled out, his body slumping against the wall. 

 

He recollected himself in the darkness, cleaned his mess with a rag he’d pinched from Simone’s bedside. She was still sleeping, and when his breathing returned to normal, Brian lay down upon the pillow, pulled his coat over him, and slept soundly, free from the rocking of the sea. 

 

*

 

John shot up, his throat tight and tears pulling at the corners of his eyes as his breath came out hard. His body was glazed with sweat, his chest hair stuck wet against his body, the sickly sheen of perspiration dripping off his skin onto the sheets of his bed below him.  

John’s head rolled backwards, bumped against the headboard, his lips parted as he recollected his breath. His parent’s faces flashed in his brain, and he rocked forwards and wiped his face with his hands as tears slid down his cheeks. The sobs overcame him and for a few moments he allowed himself to cry, his back heaving as his hands covered his face, almost as if in shame. Then, John flushed with goosebumps as the cold air found his sweat and cooled him. He wiped himself with the sheet, rolled out of bed and pulled his shirt on. 

_ The nightmares.  _ They were back. He hadn’t had one for a while, but they always resurfaced whenever he embarked on a new assignment at sea. They plagued him for nights on end until he got used to the lull of the ocean, the cold air and the seaspray, until he pushed his memories back down and allowed them to stay private, hidden. 

John’s cheeks were wet from sweat and tears, and his hair was messy, ruffled in different directions from tossing and turning, wet from the perspiration that rolled down his forehead. He’d slept with it out and at once regretted it - should’ve plaited it, he grumbled to himself, as now it looked like he’d washed it and slept with it damp against the pillow. John knew he smelled poorly, so he found the bar of soap from the cabin Jim had put him in, walked out to the deck, rubbed his eyes as they adjusted to the darkness. He was tired, yes, but bathed in the moonlight under the starless canopy, he felt at peace.

 

John hauled the wash-bucket over the side of the hull, brought it back up full. He quickly stripped off and dipped the soap into the bucket, rubbed it over his body until he had a soft lather. John hesitated, then, but hastily poured the water over himself, flinching with just how cold it was. Ideally, he knew, he should’ve waited until midday, when the water was warmed by the sun, instead of the early hours of the morning where he could catch a cold, but as he ran his fingers over his skin and washed away the sweat, John found comfort in the cool water, almost as if it was purifying him. 

There were naval rumours that it was bad fortune to bathe while at sea, but John didn’t buy into that. He wasn’t superstitious, and it served him well. Eight years at sea had given him confidence that procedure and teamwork made sailing easier than it otherwise would be. Perhaps John believed in God, and found superstition to be immature. Or perhaps he was just more concerned with the fact that he took pride in his rapport, and half of the naval crews in Britain were comprised of young men who looked like they’d crawled onto ships from the sewers. Besides, John was a commander, and therefore, looking the part was of importance to him. 

Returned to his cabin, John took out his diary and found a quill. He flipped through the pages softly, letting his thumb brush over the words he’d wrote in the past. Finally he settled on the blank space, and scribbled down:

 

_ 2:17am, _

_ 1806 (may) _

_ jrd _

 

_ Am out on the seas once more, although this time not on an assignment of my own. Well, an assignment of my own certainly, just not one that was given to me by the nvy. _

_ Rather, have become a stowaway upon hms romeo - cpt. Hutton’s ship. _

_ Very brash of me to make decisions such as these.. What came over me? I clambered on board at 3am only a few nights ago, thinking i would get away with it. I am a fool and a traitor, but at least not a coward. Will i ever be trusted by ryl nvy again? Will indicate in future entries. Most likely not, they prize loyalty above most else. Although i have potential they will not hesitate to outlaw me for my disobedience, for i have proven that i am not to be trusted in a crisis situation, that I am a turncoat. My superiors will be very disappointed in me. Rutherford especially. One of  _ our  _ best, he described me. For shame that I see his face upon my trial. Worst case scenario they will discharge me without my pay and i will not be able to afford to buy a humble cottage off the coast, will have to work instead as a labourer harvesting turnips or something nonsensical such until my hands are plagued by crippling arthritis and my back is broken and hunched over. No woman shall want me then and i will be forced to live alone, walking shamefully past the brothels but never going in. Ah, i jest, but i do fear what i do not know, as i believe is the human condition. I shall abstain from thinking these thoughts while on board otherwise i certainly will go mad. If i were a woman my anxiety would keep me hysterically at home. _

 

_ Nightmares back again - fourth time this year… missing my parents wholly, like there is a gaping wound in my chest that only i may see at all times. I wish circumstances were different. Not sure if they’d be proud of me. Am 24 now, probably old to them as they were married by my age with baby on the way, but although i am a man out here sometimes i feel that i did not have the chance to live a stable childhood, as i should have, and therefore have not completely grown up. Nay, some of me is still boyish, although i by now have a man’s body. Of course i am sure of this. Seeing myself is sometimes agony; what to do with this frame? These fingers are too long and get in the way of performing simple tasks. Alas, do not know what the future holds but would like a family of my own. Only if God so allows me to find a wife whom i can love and build a life with. No hurry but high expectations. Would not want to leave anyone destitute. Shall never take advantage of a whore for this very reason, despite ease of access. Could not possibly live with myself if i constantly was wondering what became of every woman i used. Certainly other people do not think this deeply. Perhaps i am cursed(?) _

 

_ Have not had a cup of tea for days now. Trying to preserve my tobacco for when i really need it. _

_ Hutton made me a deal, unsure how it will pan out. Don’t really want to command a crew, only find nelson’s missing daughter. Perhaps it is no coincidence that i am gone after her but rather divine intervention. Only time will tell…  _

 

_ May God bless me and keep me safe. My prayer nightly is that i shall find (Y/N) Nelson and return her safely to her father with no hindrance. Will then finally get the opportunity to take N up on his offer to visit. It has been a remarkably long time since i saw a garden or sat under the shade of a tree, nay, even since i wet my feet walking on the shore of a beach.  _

_ Is it unusual for a man to want these simple pleasures of life? If only eight years of work was enough to satisfy a whole life. I fear i shall work until i am fifty, if i even live that long. I grow tired of seafaring.  _

_ Tis cold and wet. Even now I have washed myself and am shivering in my cabin. I long to go home and sleep soundly.  _

_ One day I shall gaze out at sea and never have to know again what it’s like to be at the mercy of the big blue. _

 

_ Shall write again when in a better headspace, or if a major event occurs that I would see fit to log. _

_ For now, this concludes my entry. _

 

_ J R Deacon x _


	12. XI. Roger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's that: two chapters in one day?! YES!  
> This is a very tiny snippet, but I want it in this fic as a standalone. 
> 
> Here's a look into the tender side of our favourite pirate. Feel free to skip it, or read at your leisure.
> 
> Content warning for (penetrative) sex.

Roger’s eyes blinked open as the sun shone in through the rickety window of the room. He was naked, cold, only his foot hanging over the bed catching the ray of sunshine. The light illuminated the blonde hairs on his leg, the dust dancing in the morning hue. Roger groaned, rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted; it had been a remarkably long night - a good one, yet his body was sore, like his bones were stretching out of his frame. 

Beside him, the whore from last night, sleeping on her stomach, a snore falling from her lips every few minutes. Roger stroked her hair, blinked calmly. Whatever the time was, he knew the day was still young. 

The woman stirred, and Roger wondered if he was still supposed to be in her bed. He’d paid for the night, but she probably had other clients today, maybe even soon. 

When she woke, she pressed a kiss to his chest, lips hovering on his nipple. Roger laced his fingers through her hair, closed his eyes for a moment, imagined that she was someone else, somewhere else. 

 

“Hi, darlin,” she purred. “Sleep well?”

 

“After you? Out cold,” Roger smiled, allowing himself to let his guard down.

 

“You’re amazing, baby,” the whore kissed his chest again, crawling on top of him. Roger’s hands cupped her chin, stroked her cheek. 

 

“You’re paid to say that,” he whispered.

 

“I’m telling the truth!” she confirmed. “No man’s ever made me feel the way you do.”

 

“Don’t fall for me,” he warned. “I’m leaving soon.”

 

“Soon,” she touched his lips with her index finger. “Stay a while yet.”

 

“I can’t afford you,” the pirate laughed.

 

“On the house,” the woman offered, drawing slow circles with her finger on his clavicle. 

 

“How can I say no?” Roger raised his eyebrows, sucking her finger into his mouth. 

 

The woman pressed a kiss to his wrist, trailed her lips down his body, stopping to kiss against his stomach, trace the gentle patter of hairs that ran downwards to his crotch with her tongue. Roger closed his eyes, felt her lips against his skin, the way it made him feel excited and remorseful all at once, how his body responded immediately to her mouth, the blood rushing downwards where her lips pressed against him, peppered him with kisses.

 

“Wait,” he murmured. “Can you do something for me?”

 

“Anything,” the woman smiled.

 

Roger sat up, clasped her hand in his, his silence almost deafening enough for two heartbeats to be heard thumping in alternate rhythms.

 

“Can I kiss you?” He murmured. “And… when… when we…” he swallowed. “Don’t worry, it’s stupid.”

 

The woman ran her finger over his cheek. “Nothing you can say to me will offend me, darlin’. There are worse things I’ve had to deal with in here. Whatever you want, I’ll do.”

 

Roger blinked, his breath catching in his throat. “Can we go slowly?” He whispered. “And.. and if you do experience pleasure, can you say my name?” 

 

The woman frowned. “That’s it?”

 

“It’s been a long time since anyone said my name,” the pirate choked. “Or at least, a long time since I heard it said by a woman.”

 

“Alright,” the woman shuffled forwards, brushing her nose with his. Roger’s hands found her face, pulled her lips onto his, kissed her gently, so tenderly that it was unfathomable that he’d killed people, sliced off limbs, tortured and pillaged. His eyes fluttered shut as they tasted each other, let their tongues explore, hungry but reserved, ever so slowly. 

 

Roger’s hand found her hip and rolled her backwards, his fingers sliding up to her thigh to draw soft circles against the milky flesh, upwards to dance in between her legs, touch her with care, and her eyes rolled back as her mouth hung open and she let out a moan. 

When he entered her, he paused to drag his lips against hers again, then rolled their hips together carefully. Her legs wrapped around his pelvis, pushing him deeper inside her.

 

“What’s your name?” She whispered. 

 

“My name is Roger,” he replied, and his eyes were honest, almost mournful. 

He pushed then, slowly, taking his time to thrust deep, the drag of their bodies causing friction against their chests. Roger’s hair fell in her face, his sweat rolled off his forehead until he pressed his face into her shoulder, her fingers drawing gentle lines on his back as she tightened around him. His name fell off her lips multiple times, whether a moan or a whisper, and Roger swallowed back tears as he closed his eyes and listened to her babbling, the gentle creak of the rickety bed holding their bodies, his end coming sooner than he wanted it to, and holding more weight than he could have imagined. 


End file.
